EDGE
by RedLightsRedFights
Summary: Maxine Watson is strangely good with a dagger, doesn't understand empathy, hates verbal conflict, and relishes the rush of danger. The only person who even remotely understands her is her older brother, John. However, when she returns to London after a mysterious 2-year stay in Japan, their new flatmate might unlock doors in Max's mind she didn't know existed. (SherlockxOC)
1. Prologue

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have used the transcript that has been typed out by Ariane DeVere on her blog for all of the dialogue that was used in the show, and in some cases some of her descriptions regarding facial features, motions, etc (because they were so delightfully well written). I highly recommend going and giving her blog a read, if only purely for her wonderful quips and writing style of the show. Her website is: arianedevere. livejournal. com, just remove the spaces. Hope you enjoy the story!**_

* * *

 _Prologue_

The streets of Tokyo were brilliant and full of life as they always were. The lights glimmered all around me, the dancing vibrancy of Akihabara pulsated with the beat of my heart; my heart which was actually pounding in my ears. Was _this_ what it was like to live? To _feel?_ I'd never experienced the sensation before—of how the emptiness within me fled like a vampire being chased by UV rays.

"They what?" I breathed.

Kaida Miyako stood before me. She was a few inches shorter than me, but the Japanese woman had proved time and time again that she could kick my ass with ease. I'd only beaten her in two of our nearly one hundred spars.

"They're trying to get to me," Miyako replied. We both spoke Japanese and kept our voices low. Luckily, the pop music coming from the stores around us would most likely keep any eavesdroppers from overhearing. "I should have warned you about this when you asked me to teach you. It was stupid of me."

Miyako shoved some of her dark hair out of her face and glared at the ground. I'd never seen her so agitated... I'd never seen her so afraid.

"I don't understand," I murmured. "They... they wouldn't want anything to do with me. I've never done anything."

Miyako gave a small huff of bitter amusement. "Max, do you think you are the only one I taught?"

"I don't understand," I repeated as my voice dropped to a whisper.

She hardly ever used my actual name, or rather, a nickname of my actual name: Maxine. Most of the time she called me Akage: the name she gave me the moment I walked into her class.

Miyako reached up and gripped my shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Max. I wasn't going to use you like the others, I promise. But now, Yoshio doesn't see it that way. He thinks you're my next project; he thinks you're valuable to me, which makes you valuable to him."

I took a step back and Miyako's hands slipped off my jacket. "So it's true," I breathed and my eyes darted toward Miyako's left hand. "You were..."

" _Were._ " Miyako put emphasis on the word. "No longer, and never willingly _was._ Max... I know you've made a name for yourself here. But with your art and how it's going with the publishers—you can work from anywhere."

"You want me to leave." I stated the words rather than ask them.

Miyako's lips formed a tight line and she nodded. "There is a reason I never document my students' names, there's a reason I made everyone use nicknames in class. Yoshio doesn't know your identity yet and he only has a vague description of you. But if you stay, he will find out and once he does, there's no telling what Yoshio will do."

"But Miyako..." I breathed. "Perhaps the police—?"

"Come on, Max you're a smart girl," Miyako interjected. "You know I can't get them involved. Surely you realize what I've been doing—what all my previous prize students have gone and done for me—some still do."

I pressed a hand to my forehead. Just an hour ago, I thought Kaida Miyako was just a strange and eccentric Aikido instructor that had been teaching me for the past year and a half. Yet now here she was telling me that if I didn't leave the country, I could very well end up dead or worse.

Too bad that the notion only flooded me with a sense of sheer excitement.

"I can't leave _now,_ " I grumbled.

Miyako smiled slightly. "I know that you're different, Max. I know that you don't work the same as others do. But please—even if this is the first time you've been excited about something, you can't stay. You _won't_ survive Yoshio and if he isn't planning to kill you, what he has in store will be far worse. I know you don't think there's anything in there..." She gently reached beneath my yellow scarf and touched my collarbone. "But you have something within you that is special. Don't let Yoshio ruin it."

I grimaced at her words. Didn't Miyako understand what it was like for me in that moment? It was the first time I'd ever felt something beyond the yawning pit of nothing that laid within me. The idea of trying to outwit someone like Yoshio...

"Not to mention, you have family to think about, remember?" Miyako pointed out. "I'm fairly certain they wouldn't be pleased with me getting you in this mess. Go home, Max. Go live your life."

"What about you?" I pressed.

"Yoshio won't do anything if I send you off and don't take another student," Miyako assured me. "He'll see that I go his message clearly."

I looked over my teacher one more time. "John did email me a couple of days ago," I said slowly. "Said he was getting on fine, but I know him... he's back from war and won't talk to Harry at all... he's struggling."

"There, see?" Miyako smiled. Despite being in her forties, she looked young and full of life. "You always light up when you talk about John."

It was true enough. My brother was one of the few things in this world that caused some semblance of a spark within me. He was the reason I'd learned about social etiquette and how to compose myself around others; granted I wasn't the best at it. But for John, I would play the song and dance enough to get by; enough to avoid irritating questions and nosy people trying to figure me out.

"This still doesn't sit right with me," I said.

Miyako sighed and shook her head again. "You would have been perfect, to be honest," she said. "I think you could have done it. You're detached enough, careful enough—you're more of a threat than you know, Max." She smiled sadly. "But if you stayed here; whether it was working with me or Yoshio, all those talents would be put to nothing but greed and revenge that wouldn't sate me even if I got it. Take those skills and use them for something _worthwhile_ Max. Something that will _change_ the world, not encourage it to remain just as sinister and dark."

"Miyako, I'm just decent with a dagger, I don't think I could _change_ the world," I said.

Miyako chuckled softly. "That's what makes you special, Max. You don't see your self worth now, but I assure you that one day you will. I think John is the first step to that. You'll need his help finding yourself."

Miyako gave me one last pat on the arm before turning and walking away. I watched her for a moment then I called, "You better keep in touch! Email me once a week at least, you hear me?"

The small instructor waved over her shoulder at me and turned the corner to vanish from sight. Part of me contemplated ignoring my teacher's instructions and staying in Japan anyway. It was the first time I'd experienced this sort of sensation and it completely elated me. However, I saw the look in Miyako's eyes—I was as good as dead if I stayed and I couldn't do that to her or my brother.

So I turned and began to head toward the train station, all the while booking a flight on my mobile for one Maxine Watson straight to London.


	2. A Study in Pink, Part 1

_Maxine_

"To be perfectly honest, I wasn't expecting you."

A small smile tugged my lips as I looked over at the man that strode beside me. John Watson wasn't much taller than myself, something that he didn't enjoy me pointing out, for whatever reason. His hair was neat and dusty-brown unlike my bright ginger locks, but we still shared the same stone-blue eyes.

"I figured you'd be used to me being... spontaneous," I told him. "Have you talked to Harry recently?"

John's face fell and he instantly broke eye contact. We walked along a rather busy street in central London. Overcast was threatening rain overhead and there was a slight chill to the breeze, but when I glanced up, I could tell the brunt of the rain was going to pass over us. The sounds of our shoes thudding against the sidewalk was nearly drowned out by the cars that rolled by. Autumn leaves fluttered through the air; streaks of color against the otherwise gray city landscape.

"And why would I do that?" John asked. His voice was tight.

"Because you're still looking for a place to live in London, aren't you?" I queried. "And still strapped for cash."

"What makes you think that?" John demanded.

"Why do you keep just replying with a question?" I countered calmly.

John let out a long sigh through pursed lips. "Well, I have one more for you: why are you really here, Maddie?"

An old nickname that only he was allowed to use. I shrugged and dug out some spare sake flavored Kitkats I had left. "Maybe I'm looking for a place too. Maybe I want to just go back to my old job."

"You're old job?" John scoffed. "You hated that place. If you ask me, you came back here to check up on me."

I popped a bar of candy in my mouth and chewed. Once I swallowed, I said, "I don't see how that's relevant."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm the older brother, I should be checking up on you. Weren't you trying to pursue your art career?"

"It didn't work," I told him bluntly.

"'Didn't work?'" John echoed.

I shrugged as I ate the rest of my Kitkat.

John shook his head. "I wish you would just elaborate once in a while," he muttered.

I was often seen as odd and robotic. I tried to only say what needed to be said, because to me, words were precious. They were only meant to be used when one was feeling something profound; and to be honest, I didn't really feel much. Often times I figured there was something wrong with that, but it didn't really bother me.

"Really, Maddie, I'm fine," John insisted when I didn't respond to him. "I've got therapy going. It's helping."

"Is it?" I glanced down at the cane he was using to walk. It made his gate to be hitched and awkward.

"Yes," John replied firmly.

"Is this talk therapy or physical?" I inquired as I slipped the Kitkat wrapper in my pocket.

"Talk," John replied. "She suggested I start a blog. Thinks writing out everything that happens to me will help with... well, you know. Maxine." He only used my full name when he was very serious, or if I'd truly pissed him off. He paused in our walk and faced me. "You don't have to worry about me, really. Just head back to Japan."

"No," I said.

John opened his mouth to retort, but I cut him off.

"Johnny, arguing isn't going to get you anywhere."

"You know I hate being called that." John continued to look annoyed for a moment. Then he let out a long sigh. "You said you were looking for a place too."

"Mm-hmm." I nodded once while pulling out my phone to examine it.

John pushed my hand down the moment I tried to lift it to my face. "Are you planning on living with me?"

"You said you were looking for a flatmate," I reminded him.

"No I didn't," John argued.

I frowned as I tried to lift my phone again. "Huh, must have just been me filling in your dialogue."

Once more, John pushed my mobile down. "Will you stop that?" he snapped.

"I need to look at my settings," I insisted.

"No, you don't," John said. "You just don't like to argue and because you can't just walk away from me, you keep trying to use your mobile as a distraction."

I shoved my phone back in my pocket, my brows furrowing a bit. "You don't know that."

"You're impossible," John said. "How are we gonna find someone who will take on two roommates with no real jobs?"

"I can always bat my eyes at some passerby and hope for the best."

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" I asked seriously. "People find my looks attractive and I've found I can use it to my advantage."

"You know what, maybe it will be a good thing—you living with me," John sighed as we continued walking again. "You do realize pulling stunts like that can get you hurt?"

"I've taken a lot of classes in self defense while I was in Japan," I said. "Most people also underestimate me because of my size and sex."

My brother merely sighed again and shook his head.

John had come to greet me at the airport. I only called him when I landed to let him know I was back in London. Of course, as he said, he wasn't expecting it. I only ever got along with one member of our family, and it was him. So when the chance arose for me to take my art to Japan, I took it in a heartbeat. I'd lived there for the past two years.

Now, John was back from the war. Back and... different. Of course loads of people told me about the concern for PTSD. John had been an army doctor overseas. He'd been shot, which is what sent him home. I was glad he was back, of course; I'd visited him when he first landed. However, after a few months, I had a feeling something was wrong, given how our near constant back and forth in email came to a stop. He said he was busy, but I knew better.

I wasn't entirely lying when I said I was struggling as well. Being British in Japan and trying to get into their art culture wasn't exactly easy, especially since it was still challenging for me to read their written language. Yet eventually, someone took a manga idea of mine and my art. It had taken off quite nicely, to the point where I could work from anywhere. Japan would still be more ideal to keep up with my job, but I'd been forced to leave by my old Aikido instructor just when things finally stated to get interesting. It was a little sad considering how I was before my life was actually threatened.

I was bored.

It was incredible to be living in a place like Japan and feel _bored_. I found myself using any and every excuse I could to do something new, something exciting. That was how I ended up taking Aikido in the first place and it was what caused me to ask Miyako about her injured pinky finger. Perhaps it was coincidence that John seemed to need someone the most when I was forced to leave.

"Why didn't we take the cab all the way to the place you're staying?" I asked as we rounded a corner and headed up a new street.

"I'm supposed to exercise the leg," John explained. "Not that it's any fun. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all," I agreed as I adjusted my yellow scarf about my neck. It was the first thing I bought in Japan and I was rather attached to it. "It's decent out considering the time of year."

"John?" a voice suddenly called. "John Watson?"

The two of us turned to see a slightly portly man waving from a bench we were passing. Spectacles gripped his face a touch to tightly, and his brown hair was receding off the crown of his head. He waved, a smile on his face.

"Stamford!" the man introduced. "Mike Stamford! We went to Barts together!"

"Oh, yes, yes." John seemed surprised as he shook the man's hand.

"I know, I know!" Mike exclaimed. Then he leaned in with a grin. "I've gotten fat."

"Oh, no, 'course not..." John mumbled awkwardly, as was the polite thing to do in these situations.

"And who might this lovely young lady be?" Mike turned his attention to me, still beaming.

"You don't recognize Maddie?" John said.

I shot a look at my brother. I couldn't recall ever having a conversation with this guy. Was I supposed to act like I knew him? John seemed to sense my stress and met my eyes for a moment before laughing a little.

"I had pictures of my family up in the dorm," he explained. "No, you haven't met him."

"Cool. That would have been awkward," I muttered.

"Ah, yes, Mad Max!" Mike beamed as he extended his hand. "John had a lot of stories about you!"

I shook the man's hand. His grip was firm and his hand was clammy. "Hi," I said with a brief smile before taking a step back and fixating my attention on some nearby pigeons that were busily pecking at crumbs. I didn't know this man, so I had no obligation to talk to him.

"Yes, uh, good to meet you too." Mike cleared his throat before turning back to John. "So what have you been up to? I heard you were overseas getting shot at! What happened?"

Well that's an interesting choice of an ice-breaker. I glanced at my brother, wondering if I needed to fake fainting or something equally preposterous to save him from answering. However, John merely gave a tight-lipped smile, shrugged, and said, "I got shot."

We ended up grabbing coffee and sitting down on the bench with Mike so he and John could catch up a bit. I kept my hands around my cup, appreciating the warmth it provided. October was chilly this year, but I didn't mind. I appreciated the cold. The sharp sting of it, the clean scent it gave the air. I often found myself content sitting and listening to others talk. The only time I got uncomfortable was when they tried to pull me into the conversation. Luckily for me, John knew this and he was quite good at answering questions for my or redirecting the conversation.

"Are you still at Barts, then?" John asked, glancing at Mike.

"Yes, teaching now," Mike replied. "Bright, young kids just like we were. God, I hate them." He laughed and smiled over at John. "What about you, just staying in town just until you get yourself sorted?"

"Ha, no, can't afford London on an Army pension," John said as if it were obvious.

"Ah, but I can't imagine you anywhere else! That's not the John Watson I know," Mike said.

John cast his gaze to his knees and flexed his left hand. It seemed to be giving off a slight tremor. "I'm not that John Watson," he muttered.

"Well, you have family in town!" Mike smiled across John to where I sat. "Perhaps you two can figure something out together!"

John glanced at me. "Well, that was the plan, but Maddie just got in. Literally, she just arrived today."

"No job," I added while still examining the pigeons strut down the sidewalk. I took a long drink of coffee to show I wasn't going to say more.

"Can't Harry help?" Mike suggested.

John scoffed and I nearly choked on my drink.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," John said.

"I don't know... get a flat share or something?" Mike asked with a shrug.

"Come on," John sighed. "Who would want me as a flatmate? Not to mention with my additional baggage now." He shot me a glance.

"No need to get rude," I muttered.

Mike started to chuckle.

"What?" John asked, turning his attention to his old classmate.

"It's just that..." Mike looked the both of us over, still grinning with amusement, "you're the second person to ask me that today."

I frowned and leaned forward to meet his eyes. I was a bit pleased something had finally piqued my interest. "Who was the first?"

* * *

The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and other chemicals I couldn't name hung in the air of the laboratory at St. Barts. Nearly everything was white-the floors, the counters, the cabinets, even the equipment. I couldn't help but be curious as I eyed all the strange tools littered about. I was trying to decide if everything looked tidy or cluttered.

"Bit different from my day," John noted as we followed Mike in.

"You've no idea," Mike replied with a small chuckle.

There was only one other person in the room; a man sitting at the table with some kind of large dropper in one hand. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing. Liquid was dripping out of the tip of the strange device and onto a small glass dish.

His dark hair was curly and reached down to his ear lobes. His face was smooth and slender and his eyes were striking- long-lashed and angular. Their color was pale green; a green that reminded me of spring and the budding of leaves. He dressed normally enough; collared shirt, dark slacks. He only spared us a small glance as we stepped into the room. It seemed fleeting, disinterested, but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel like there was a sharpness to his gaze. Something piercing and unrelenting.

"Mike," the man said abruptly. "Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the land line?" Mike asked with a perked brow as he headed toward him.

"Nothing, I prefer to text," the man replied.

"Sorry," Mike said with a shrug. "It's in my coat."

There was a slightly awkward silence before John spoke up.

"Uh, here, use mine," he said, slipping his mobile from his pocket and offering it with a smile. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the same one Harry gave him. I suppose it was a nice phone; no point in tossing it, especially when so tight on money.

The man blinked, appearing pleasantly surprised. "Oh. Thank you," he said as he got to his feet.

As he headed over toward us, I couldn't help but take in his tall, lean stature. Of course, almost anyone standing near my brother appeared tall. Even I was only two inches shorter than him.

I found myself memorizing his features. He would be delightful to draw. It would be an extraordinary challenge to get the shading and curls of his hair just right. Then there were those eyes... eyes so ascetically pleasing that they might just work on any face.

"This is an old colleague of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced. "And his sister, Maddie."

I didn't know how I felt about someone I barely knew calling and introducing me as Maddie. I typically only let John and Harry call me that. My brow pinched a bit as I focused on examining the strange tools around me, worrying my fingers in the folds of my scarf.

As the man paused by John and began to type away on the phone, he offhandedly asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It took me a second to register what he said. Seems it was the same for John, for he blinked and looked at the man with a frown. I glanced to Mike to see he was smirking a little, as if he was privy to some inside joke.

"Sorry?" John said.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man repeated, letting his gaze leave the mobile phone to look at John.

John blinked a few times. "Afghanistan..." he said. "I'm sorry, how did you...?"

Mike was clearly amused. He had taken a seat across the table from the man and bore a wide grin. I began to open my mouth to ask some questions myself, but then the door behind us opened and the man's focus changed.

"Ah, Molly!" he greeted. "Coffee, thank you."

A mousy woman came into the lab with a mug of hot coffee in her hand. She had a pronounced jaw and dusty-brown hair pulled back in a tie. She wore a white lab coat and a nice blouse and trousers beneath.

As she handed the man his coffee, he tilted his head at her. "What happened to the lipstick?" he asked her.

"Oh, um, it wasn't working for me," the woman called Molly replied with a meek smile.

"Hm, I think it was a great improvement," the man insisted as he turned away and began to walk back toward his previous seat. "Your mouth's too small now."

I watched as Molly examined her folded hands with something mixed with conflict and horror.

"Okay," she squeaked before turning and taking her leave.

"Ah, poor lamb," I whispered under my breath.

"Sorry?" John frowned at me.

I shook my head dismissively. That woman, Molly, clearly had some sort of attachment to this man. Too bad it seemed this guy was too caught up in his own world to notice or care. Romantic involvement always seemed like too much work. I always thought of the birds in the tropics- how the men would flaunt their vividly colorful feathers and dance about, some even made nests to try and impress a potential mate. Of course, with humans, it seemed females were more inclined to pull out the bright colors and dances- not that it was unheard of men doing the same.

So much hassle for something so simple. The woman would probably be far better off just admitting her true feelings.

My attention went back to the dark-haired man. There were a few ways he could have come to the conclusion that John was military: John had the cane and was too young to need it for arthritis or anything of the like. He kept his hair nice and neat and his clothing tidy; shirt tucked in, buttons buttoned up to his neck. I suppose it wasn't difficult to come to the conclusion.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the dark-haired man abruptly asked. He was back at his seat and was examining the dish again.

"The violin?" John echoed.

"Yes, playing it helps me think." The man took a sip of his coffee. "Sometimes I can go days on end without saying a word, would that bother you?" He turned to look at John. "Potential flatmates should know the worst of each other." He gave a tight-lipped smile.

"You told him about me?" John accused Mike.

Mike shook his head. "Not a word," he insisted. He still seemed amused, but he didn't strike me as the pranking type. I let my eyes travel back to the man, bewildered. John did the same.

"Then who said anything about a flatmate?" he asked.

"I did," the man said as he grabbed coat from a nearby rack and began to put it on. "This morning I told Mike that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He snatched up a dark blue scarf and began to wrap it about his neck. "Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

John and I exchanged a glance before my brother asked, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," the man said, ignoring John's question as he turned and began to walk back toward us. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at 7:00. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

I couldn't help but release a breath of amusement. The man turned his eyes on me and they narrowed slightly.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I just- I'd like to think you're kidding, but you're not. That's what makes it funny." I shrugged.

The man tilted his head. "And how is it that you know that I'm not kidding?"

"Because you don't seem the type to kid," I said. "At least, not in that fashion. Perhaps sarcasm is more your stride."

The man's eyes darted over me fully now, taking in my whole form with one flick. I was wearing a dark blue jacket that nearly reached my knees with jeans and a black long-sleeve shirt beneath. There were runners on my feet- easy to put on and take off due to the airport, plus I liked the comfortable arch support. I too had a scarf, though mine was bright yellow and I had a matching hat on my head. My ginger hair poked out from beneath the knit cap, just barely reaching my chin.

"I see," the man said, words slow and curious. "Interesting. Do you typically attempt to analyze people?"

"Not typically, no," I admitted. "But you do. I figured it would be interesting to see your reaction to someone doing it to you." I grinned.

"Maddie," John said in a warning tone.

"Don't worry, Johnny, he's not mad," I assured him before glancing back at the man. "He's just surprised."

The man blinked and shrugged. "Suppose I am. Interesting." He walked by us and headed for the door.

"So that's it?" John called after him.

The man paused and turned back around. "Is that what?"

"We only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" John pressed.

"Problem?" the man said.

John let out a small scoff as he exchanged a look with Mike. When he put his attention back on the man, he said, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting- I don't even know your name."

The man's gaze suddenly switched. He lowered his brows and his eyes sharpened with something I couldn't place. It was... intriguing.

"I know that you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he said, his words swift and factual. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you wouldn't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Then there's the third sibling, your sister- the youngest."

His eyes snapped over to me and I nearly dove for cover behind the counter. I had just been having a bit of fun and trying to make the guy uncomfortable for being so rude to that Molly girl from before. However, it seemed this man wasn't going to be shown up. He'd just guessed nearly everything right with John, I didn't want him digging in on me.

"She's worried about you too," the man went on. "You don't want her here, perhaps part of that is pride, but I think it's mostly guilt. She's been abroad in Japan-I'd say about two to three years-doing art. Something she's clearly passionate about-and she isn't passionate about just anything-so you don't want her to be the one to help you. But she's incredibly stubborn, so you can't shake her from helping you, not yet anyway. And..."

He trailed off and began to frown at me.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"You keep saying that," I said, my voice small and wispy from shock.

"You need a place to stay too; this isn't just a social visit to check on your brother- you intend to stay with him until you know for certain he's stable," the man said. He sighed and shook his head. "Good thing this place has three bedrooms." He turned his attention back to John. "Oh. And I know that your therapist thinks you limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John glanced down at his leg and cane and shifted, clearly uncomfortable.

The man then smiled lightly at the both of us. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" he said before turning and opening the door. He paused before exiting, pale green eyes flicking between us. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked with a click of his tongue, said, "Afternoon!" to Mike, and then he was gone.

I took a step back, blinking a few times. "What just happened?" I asked, my head snapping over to look at my brother.

Mike just nodded. "Yeah," he said. "He's always like that."

* * *

That night, when we went back to John's current flat outside of London, I swiftly snatched his phone from his pocket as he was heading for his bed.

"Oi!" he protested.

"I have to see what he texted," I said as I opened up his messages and went to his outbox.

"He was... odd, wasn't he?" John sighed as he limped to his cot and sat down.

I found the message, pleased it wasn't deleted. Not that it made any sense. It read: _If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_

"Police?" I wondered aloud under my breath. "He doesn't seem the type to... work with people." I frowned as I sat beside my brother, tossing him Harry's old phone. "I know how he figured out you have a _brother."_

John flipped his mobile over and looked at the engraving on the back. _Harry Watson, From Clara XXX._

"Just from this?" John asked. "What if it's just a used phone I bought? Ah, right, the last name."

"Not to mention, you're not the type to get a phone of that quality, even used," I said with a shake of my head.

"You and your 'types,'" John sighed. "You and him will get on fine."

"I don't flaunt like he does," I argued. "How did he know I was abroad? And an artist?"

"Have you seen your hands?" John said.

I looked at them. There were graphite smudges all over my knuckles and the heels of my palms. "Oh," I mumbled.

John let out a long breath through his nostrils. "Are we really going to do this?" he asked. "Go meet that man at this flat?"

"It seems beneficial," I pointed out. "He didn't realize I was in on this until after he said you two could afford the flat. Splitting it three ways will make it even better. You know staying in London is important to you."

John shook his head. "Perhaps, but the man is... I mean, I didn't expect there to be someone with us," he said with a wary glance in my direction.

I frowned. "Are you concerned about him taking advantage of me?"

"He's odd!" John said. "What if he's dangerous or something?"

"You wouldn't think twice if it was just you," I told him.

"Well, yes, you're right," John confessed. "But being flatmates with a total stranger isn't something young women should do!"

"You'll be there," I said. "Besides, Johnny, I told you I can hold my own. I think we should do it." I began to smile. "If he's involved with the police, perhaps he's some kind of investigator. It would be fascinating."

"You want to get involved with stuff like that?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course," I answered truthfully. "I could always use new material to work with."

"This isn't one of your comics, Maddie," John said.

"Manga," I corrected him.

John shook his head. "You know what I mean. It's not an adventure novel. If he _is_ involved with the police as some kind of investigator or detective, it could be dangerous."

"Danger tends to be exciting," I said, remembering the leap in my heart when Miyako told me to leave Japan.

"You can't be serious right now," John groaned.

For a moment he just stared at the wall, chewing on his tongue. I patiently waited for him to speak again, knowing I'd already won this argument. One thing that John and I had in common: we loved thrills.

"I have an idea," John said.

He got to his feet and limped over to his desk. From there, he sat down and opened up his laptop. I went over to hover behind him, watching as he typed Sherlock Holmes' name into a search engine.

"Wow," I said when the results popped up.

Sherlock was a busy man. There were several news articles about his exploits. He'd assisted the police with cases involving everything from murder, major heists, kidnapping, forgery, and so much more. He had his own site as well.

"This might be more interesting than I thought," I breathed.

John shook his head at me. "You've always been a little too keen on danger, Maddie."

"Look who's calling the kettle black," I countered.

All my brother could respond with was a laugh.


	3. A Study in Pink, Part 2

John and I headed down Baker Street at a brisk pace, at least as brisk as we could with John's limp. The air was nippy, but at least there was no wind. Part of me couldn't help but hope for some rain, or even snow. I delighted in overcast weather; there was something just too... harsh about the direct sunlight.

"Looks like this is is." I gestured to the door we were approaching. It read 221B above it. It was made of dark oaken wood and had a brass knocker on it, ornate yet simple at the same time in design.

Just as John reached up to knock, a cab pulled up and out stepped Sherlock Holmes. He was in the same long dark coat and navy blue scarf he wore yesterday. I couldn't help but admire his striking eyes again.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John greeted.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock insisted as he shook my brother's outstretched hand.

I extended my own and he took it, his grip firm and warm even through my gloves. His smile was brief and carried an air of necessity, as if his face was just used to mimicking emotion rather than actually expressing it. It was easy to recognize something I regularly did.

"Maddie," he said with a nod. "Of course, you don't like being called that. I could call you by your real name, if you prefer."

I blinked. How could he possibly know that? John looked just as bewildered. Finally, I found my voice and said, "I want to ask how you knew that, but I don't think you'd answer me."

"What gives you that idea?" Sherlock frowned.

"Well, you haven't told us how you knew all those things about John or myself from back at that lab," I pointed out. "You're kind of... sitting on it, right? Waiting for a grand reveal, or maybe you just like watching people squirm as they try to figure it out."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, regarding me with a furrowed brow. "You seem to think I'm quite arrogant."

"You are, aren't you?" I raised my brows.

Sherlock shrugged. "I like to think it's confidence. In any case, your face is what gives away the fact that you don't like the name. That is, unless John is using it." He glanced toward my brother. "That's what indicates it's a nickname, not your real one. Maddie is typically short for something anyway, which only solidifies my suspicions. Your brows pinch a bit and you look at the ground. So, what would you prefer to be called? Madison? Madeleine? Madge? I can go down the list."

"You won't find it, the rate you're going," John said.

Sherlock looked between the two of us, clearly skeptical. "What do you mean by that?"

"Mad Max," I replied.

Sherlock looked up at the sky and bent his knees a little, hands balling up into fists. A gesture of pure irritation. " _Maxine_ , of course. It's always something." He recovered and met my eyes again. "So Maxine, then?"

"Max is fine," I told him, which earned me a small glance of surprise from John. "Shall we?" I gestured toward the door.

John went to it, apparently letting the fact that I was allowing Sherlock to call me _Max_ slide. I didn't let anyone call me Max—not that John knew about. Miyako was the first who ever did. In all honesty, I wasn't even certain why I had so quickly corrected Sherlock.

"This is in a prime spot," John pointed out as he reached up and hit the knocker against the door. "It must be expensive."

"The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favor," Sherlock explained. "She's letting us rent it out on a discount. I helped her with a case involving her husband in which he was to be sentenced to death in Florida."

"So you stopped her husband from being executed?" John guessed.

"Oh no, I ensured it." Sherlock smiled.

Before either of us could ask the strange man what he meant, the door opened.

A sweet woman that must have been at least in her late fifties stood in the doorway. Her hair was short and curly, the color of caramel. Her eyes were bright despite her age and light brown. She wore a lovely blouse and pants and her feet were in tasteful white slip-on flats.

The moment she spotted Sherlock, she beamed and came out to hug him.

"Sherlock," she greeted cheerfully. "So good to see you again."

"Mrs. Hudson, John Watson," Sherlock introduced, "and his sister, Maxine Watson."

"Hello!" Mrs. Hudson said, smiling widely. "Come in, please."

"Hello, thank you," John replied. He used his cane to lurch up the step into the building.

I followed shortly after, worrying the fabric of my scarf with my fingers as I went.

The flat we were to look at was upstairs. Sherlock led the way, swiftly ascending the narrow staircase with his long legs. The railing was freshly polished and I could still smell cleaner hanging in the air. Mrs. Hudson must have freshened it up. The stairwell itself was rather dark; the wood was a deep oak and the accenting metals were a low-saturated copper. The only light that hung from the ceiling was dim, but not exactly from lack of trying. Despite the shadowy lighting, I didn't find it to be unsettling or unpleasant. In fact, I thought it was quite cozy.

Sherlock and I reached the top of the stairs well before John. I wondered if I should go back down and help him, but I had a feeling my brother would be livid if I attempted it. That was one thing we had in common: the main one out of the seven deadly sins that haunted us was pride.

"Psychosomatic?" I murmured to Sherlock.

He glanced at me. Even in the dim setting, his eyes were still brilliant. "Oh just wait," he replied, voice equally soft. "I'll prove it."

I supposed that Sherlock proving my brother's leg was fine would be beneficial. For one, it would allow us to actually take this flat. If our new companion was wrong, then there was no way John was going to be trudging up and down these stairs every day.

John lurched up to us and Sherlock gave him a broad smile before turning and opening the door. The three of us headed inside and I found myself pleasantly surprised.

There was a strange amount of clutter scattered about, but overall, the flat was quite spacious. There was a large kitchen with a table in the middle of it like an island, as well as both an oven and dishwasher. The living room was massive. There were was a sofa within as well as two chairs, a coffee table, and a dining table. A hall wrapped around the kitchen to where the bedrooms or bathrooms were, no doubt.

"Oh, this could be nice," John sighed wistfully as he stared around. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "I think so as well."

In that moment, my brother and Sherlock spoke in the same moment. While John pointed out, "We should probably get this rubbish cleaned out." Sherlock said, "That's why I've already moved in."

The two of them stared at one another for a moment.

"Awkward." I said, darting my eyes between the two of them.

Sherlock turned away from John and strode deeper into the living room. I then noticed the fireplace and smiled a bit. I could already picture chilly winter days with the fire roaring and a cup of cocoa in my hands. This place really was amazing, clutter or no.

"So this is all...?" John began to ask.

"Well, obviously, I can uh... tidy up a bit," Sherlock said as he shuffled some papers together and picked up a small knife. He stabbed it into the mantle above the fireplace.

At first, I was planning on noting his lack of care for Mrs. Hudson's property, but that was when I noticed the skull.

"There's a skull." Seems my brother noticed too. As he pointed it out, he gestured to the thing with his cane.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock explained casually. "Well, when I say 'friend...'"

"This just gets better and better," I murmured softly. Judging by Sherlock's sharp look, he was under the impression I was being sarcastic.

"So what do you think?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She'd followed us upstairs and was striding into the living room. "There's two more bedrooms upstairs if you'll be needing them."

"Well of course we will," John replied.

"Oh, don't worry dear, there's all sorts 'round here," Mrs. Hudson assured. "The neighbor lady's got married ones."

I didn't quite get what she meant at first. I then glanced from John to Sherlock and it clicked for me.

"I suppose you would make a cute couple," I noted, completely serious. "He's tall, you're short, the contrast is actually very appealing from an artist's perspective."

"Oh shut it," John snapped.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose I just assumed. With how Sherlock introduced John first, I thought..." Mrs. Hudson chuckled before she looked between Sherlock and me. "The room downstairs is the one you two would like; it's the largest."

I shook my head. "We're not together either," I said.

Mrs. Hudson gave me a sly smile. "I know Sherlock isn't exactly someone you would brag about being with, but come now, I see how you look at him!"

John set me in a sharp glare. "What?"

"Most people misinterpret that," I said with a shrug.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John pressed.

"She examines my features because she wants to draw them," Sherlock stated, as if it were a fact that should be plainly obvious.

I blinked and frowned at him. "That's... spot on, actually." I wasn't used to people guessing that right off the bat.

"Oh, an artist, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a smile. "Well, maybe you can help Sherlock with his decorating. Honestly, Sherlock, the mess you've made." She sighed at the kitchen.

"It's not that bad—and why exactly am I not someone to brag about being with?" Sherlock went over to the desk near a window and opened a laptop.

Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to hear him. The sound of clattering dishes came from the kitchen as she began to tidy up.

"We looked you up on the internet last night," John said as he sat down in one of the chairs.

Sherlock turned, placing his hands in his pockets as he waited for the laptop to boot up. "Oh? Anything interesting?"

"Found you website," John said. "'The Science of Deduction.'"

I began to look about the flat, secretly planning on sneaking upstairs to claim the larger of the two bedrooms. I could only assume Sherlock already took the one down here, seeing as his things were all over the place. There was even lab equipment all over the kitchen table.

"What did you think?" Sherlock queried, smiling a touch.

With just one glance at him, I could tell by his expression he was quite proud of it. However, it became confused and slightly affronted the moment John gave him a face that practically screamed: _"Come on, man, really?"_

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John presented the information as a question more than a statement.

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly. "I can read your military career in your face and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." His green eyes fixated on me. "Just like I can read your sister's love for art and the fact that she's ambidextrous by her hands."

I frowned and lifted my hands to examine them. Despite me thoroughly washing them last night, there were graphite smudges on both near the heels of my palms and sides of my middle fingers. I forgot I'd been sketching that morning. With how much the markings matched, it was clear I could use both hands equally.

"How?" John said, still clearly skeptical.

Sherlock merely smiled and turned away to look out the window as his laptop finished waking up.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson came back into the room, a newspaper in her hands. "I thought that be right up your street. All three exactly the same."

"Suicides?" I echoed. I'd only just landed in London, so naturally, I wasn't up to speed with the latest news.

Sherlock's face suddenly became pensive and he stepped closer to the window, looking down at the street. I couldn't help but walk to his side, curious about what he was fixated with. When I reached him, I saw there was a police car parked outside, the lights flashing but no siren.

"Four," Sherlock murmured. "There's been a fourth, and this time, something's different..."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson echoed.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Sherlock and I turned to see a middle-aged man coming up the steps two at a time. He came to a halt in the doorway, slightly out of breath. Though older than my brother and Sherlock, he looked well for his age. His hair was a steely gray but it was full and thick. His nose was a touch small and button-like. His eyes were a deep chocolate-brown and alert. He wore a white button-up shirt with a dark jacket over it and a black coat over that.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man replied.

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock said. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock responded.

"This one did," the man said. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock queried.

"Anderson," the man answered.

Sherlock pursed his lips and turned his head away, clearly annoyed. When he finally looked back at the man, he said, "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant," the man pointed out.

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock said.

"Will you come?" the man repeated, his expression strained, but I could tell by the gleam in his eyes he was desperate.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind," Sherlock replied, glaring out the window now. He reminded me of a spoiled child not getting his way.

"Thank you," the man sighed. He actually bowed slightly before turning and leaving the room.

"Okay, what?" I said. So he did work with the police, that much was answered, but what exactly just happened? Someone was dead, that was for sure, and that police officer wanted Sherlock to go look at the body. Did Sherlock do this sort of thing often? I stared at him, waiting for a response.

Sherlock didn't reply. He continued to stare out the window while the sound of the man's retreating footsteps echoed up the stairwell. The moment the _kachunk_ of the front door came, a wide smile slowly broke out across Sherlock's face. He turned on the spot and actually jumped into the air with his fists coming up in a ecstatic fashion.

"Brilliant!" he exclaimed. "Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." He grabbed his coat from his chair and began to pull it on.

"I'm your landlady, my dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock replied. "John, Max, have a cup of tea, make yourselves at home."

He went into the kitchen while donning his scarf. I could practically feel the excitement reverberating off of him. His green eyes glistened with delight and his movement were swift and deliberate; desperate to get going.

"Don't wait up!" Sherlock called as he darted out of the room, closing the door behind him. Odd—it wasn't the door back downstairs. Where did it lead?

I couldn't help but take a few steps after him, my heartbeat pulsating in my neck and ears. Was Sherlock's excitement just rubbing off on me, or was I really this intrigued by a real crime scene? Serial suicides... no way something like that would exist—these had to be murders, right? Or maybe a cult? I didn't know enough details to figure it out.

"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "My husband was just the same... but you're more the sitting down type, I can tell." She smiled at my brother who was still seated in the chair. Then she glanced at me. "But you look like you're ready to go dashing after him. Careful, recklessness can lead to some dangerous stuff, you know."

"Of course," I said with a nod, but my eyes were still where Sherlock vanished.

"I'll make you both a cuppa," Mrs. Hudson said. To my brother, she added, "You rest that leg."

The moment she began to head into the kitchen, John suddenly burst. "Damn my leg!" he shouted, making both Mrs. Hudson and me startle. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." John shook his head and tapped his cane against his leg. "It's just that sometimes this damn thing..."

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip," Mrs. Hudson replied, smiling once again before she went into the kitchen.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," John said as he grabbed the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had earlier.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em," John added, as if he didn't hear her.

"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson sang.

I loosed a long exhale through my nose as I glanced toward the window. Sherlock did say he needed a partner... but what help could I honestly be? He'd be better off with John; at least my brother had medical and combat experience alike. Yet, I still felt a pull. I gentle tug that wanted me to follow after him.

"Stop it," John suddenly snapped.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"I know that look," John said. "You get it right before you're about to do something stupid."

"That's awfully assuming of you," I retorted. "How do you know this would be stupid?"

"Have you ever even seen a dead body before?" John asked me.

"No," I admitted, "but that doesn't mean anything."

"It means a lot of things," John said. "It means that you might not like what you see. It means that your fantasies of adventure and all that other nonsense might just be crushed along with your innocence."

"You do realize how old I am, right?" I raised a lazy brow at my brother.

"You know what I mean!" he barked back.

"You're a doctor."

Both John and I jumped a bit when Sherlock's voice sounded. He was standing in the doorway of the room he'd gone into. Behind him, I could see a dresser and the corner of a bed. It had to be the downstairs bedroom; Sherlock's bedroom. The dark-haired man was pulling on black gloves while keeping his green eyes fixated on John.

"Not just that, you're an army doctor," Sherlock added.

John slowly folded the paper and set it down on the coffee table before getting to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane for support. "Yes," he said before clearing his throat.

"Any good?" Sherlock queried.

John didn't waver. He held Sherlock's gaze and replied, "Very good."

"True," I added for my brother's benefit.

"Seen a lot of injuries then," Sherlock guessed. He began to walk toward John as he finished putting on his second glove. "Violent deaths."

"Well, yes," John answered with only a slight hesitation.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?" Sherlock was now standing directly in front of my brother.

"Of course, yes," John said. "Enough for a lifetime. Far, far too much."

There was only a brief pause that could only have lasted two heartbeats. Then Sherlock smiled, those pale green eyes of his alight with excitement.

"Want to see some more?" he asked.

"Oh God, yes," John replied in a small murmur.

"Oh sure, _you_ can go," I scoffed at my brother.

"I'm trained for this, you're not," John said.

"Hold on, John." Sherlock turned and walked toward me. "I know that you're an artist, that's easy enough to see... but there's something more, isn't there? I've been trying to put my finger on it."

"Should I be proud or worried about that?" I queried with a tilt of my head.

"You've never seen a dead body," Sherlock stated, ignoring my question; it was impossible to tell whether he obtained the information from overhearing John or if he deduced it himself. He only stopped when his nose was mere inches from me. He towered over my brother, so naturally he was nearly head and shoulders over me. I felt surprisingly small as he stared down at me, his gaze piercing and demanding.

"No," I answered honestly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a touch. He had long lashes... My hands tingled at the prospect of putting a pencil to paper. He knew I wanted to draw him; would he sit still and let me?

"You're curious by nature, most artistic types are," Sherlock mused softly. "However, that alone can't be why you'd be so eager for... adventure. You're easily bored. That's why you decided to live abroad. I'd say you were gone for nearly two years. But even being so far from home and anything familiar... you grew bored there too."

I stopped focusing on his eyelashes and the itch in my hands. I now locked my gaze with his and my brows lowered while my eyes widened.

"Okay, you have to tell me how you do that," I whispered. At least he hadn't discerned why I'd really left; I didn't think John could take that kind of stress.

Sherlock merely smiled. "I know a thing or two about boredom. Come along, Max. Adventure awaits."

He turned, his coat twirling around him in a grand flourish before heading toward the door. John was aghast.

"You can't just have my sister come along to something like this!" he protested.

"She's an adult, it's her decision, really," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

I cast a small victorious grin at my brother. "You heard the man."

John let out an irritated grunt before following Sherlock. "Never mind on the tea, Mrs. Hudson!" he called toward the kitchen. "We're heading out!"

"All three of you?" Mrs. Hudson called, following us to the door.

Sherlock turned and beamed at her. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's something finally fun going on!" He gripped her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

"Look at you, all happy," Mrs. Hudson sighed, but she was still smiling. "It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock asked before marching toward the front door. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

Outside, Sherlock hailed a cab. As the black vehicle pulled over, I blinked, realizing that the three of us were going to have to squeeze into the back seat together.

"Should I just get another cab and follow...?" I began.

"Oh, you're small, in the middle with you," Sherlock said as he opened the door and slid all the way to the other side. He patted the seat beside him. "Come on! No time to waste!"

I looked at John. "I mean, we're practically the same size, you should—"

"I didn't want you to come in the first place," John snapped. "Either you take the middle or stay here."

I groaned and got in. Sherlock was a rather slender fellow himself, so with that and my brother being only slightly bigger than me, to be honest it wasn't that tight of a fit.

"You need to move your ass," I told Sherlock in a murmur. "I can't reach the buckle."

"Oh." Sherlock lifted his hip so that I could buckle my seat belt. My hand brushed against his pants slightly.

"For the record, not trying to grope," I pointed out.

Sherlock actually grinned a little in amusement before giving our cabbie an address.

As the cab drove through the streets of London, I sat with my hands folded in my lap, feeling a touch awkward every time a turn pushed me into Sherlock. I didn't care as much as John. In fact at one point I pushed into him more than necessary to shove him against the door.

"Real mature, Maddie," he muttered.

"You're the one who made me take the middle," I reminded him.

Night had fallen, and the lights of the city smeared across the windows of the car. It wasn't as vibrant and brilliant as Tokyo had been, but really, no city was. London was gray and dismal. It wouldn't have been the place I'd gone to after Japan if John hadn't come home from war.

"You have questions," Sherlock suddenly said.

I blinked. Honestly, I was just enjoying the ride and waiting for us to arrive at our destination. But then I looked over to see John had his brow pinched.

"Yes," my brother answered.

"Go on then," Sherlock prompted.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Crime scene," Sherlock supplied easily. "Next."

"Who are you, what do you do?" John said.

Sherlock glanced at him. "What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective..." John murmured.

"But?" Sherlock was smirking a bit.

"Police don't go to private detectives," John said.

"Not to mention, when that cop showed up, it was clear that he wasn't your boss," I added. "He _asked_ you to come; he didn't order you. And you yourself said he wouldn't show up unless something was different. Makes it sound like you are only needed if something's too difficult for them."

Sherlock's smirk lengthened to a grin. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John queried.

"Means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock replied.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, grinning over at him disbelievingly.

Sherlock only held his gaze for a moment before looking out his window. "When we first met yesterday and I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you seemed surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" John pressed.

"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock said.

"Oh, is it grand reveal time?" I said, looking over at the detective expectantly.

He gave me a look that was only slightly annoyed before he started speaking again.

"The haircut and way you hold yourself says military and your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so Army doctor, obvious," Sherlock said. "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrist. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstance was traumatic, wounded in action then, wounded in action, sun tan... Afghanistan or Iraq."

He'd said the whole thing swiftly, his words precise and calm but at the same time they were... clipped. Like he was some sort of machine just spewing out data. I blinked several times. When he put it that way, it made it seem so obvious.

"You said I had a therapist," John pointed out.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock said. He suddenly turned to look at John. "Then there's you brother."

"Hmm?" John met his gaze. I had to keep a straight face. Ah, Sherlock was smart all right, but there was one thing he hadn't caught.

"Let me see your phone," Sherlock said.

John pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock across me. Sherlock looked it over and held it up for both of us to see.

"Your phone, it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player," Sherlock said. "And you're looking for a flatshare, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches all over it, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me—well, near me at least," Sherlock gave me a small glance, "he wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next's a bit's easy, you know it already." He flipped the mobile over, showing off the back.

I elbowed John lightly. "Told you."

John sighed. "The engraving."

Sherlock looked at me now. "Glad to see someone can put some pieces of the puzzle together," he said. "Yes, 'Harry Watson.' Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got extended family, certainly no one your close to, present company excluded."

I waved which earned me a small grunt of amusement from John. Sherlock went on as if he'd never been interrupted.

"So brother it is. Now _Clara_ , who is _Clara?_ " Sherlock smiled a bit, raising his brows. "Three kisses says romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on and he's given it away. If she'd left him, he'd kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. _He_ left _her_."

I felt a bit winded from all the information just pouring out of Sherlock. As he explained everything and put it together, I was just bewildered.

 _He makes me feel like a moron,_ I thought. _Smart people don't really do that to me. Not people like scientists or tech geeks. They'd studied what they were doing and practiced it like I do with my art. But this guy... he points out things that I could have seen—that I could have noticed—but didn't._

I'd always thought I was an observant person. Sherlock proved I hadn't even tasted the cusp of what observant was.

"He gave the phone to you," Sherlock went on. "That says he wants you to stay in touch. Hard to tell if he didn't give it to Max because he doesn't favor her as much or if she was abroad. You're both looking for cheap accommodation and neither of you are going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe John liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John demanded, his voice slow and deliberate.

"Shot in the dark, good one though," Sherlock confessed. "Power connection, tiny little scuff marks all around the edges of it." He lifted the mobile to show us. Sure enough, there were marks scarring the exact spot he pointed out around where the charging cable was plugged in. "Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, see you were right."

"I was right?" John was clearly confused. "Right about what?"

Sherlock tossed his mobile back to him and kept his gaze out the window. "The police don't consult amateurs."

"My turn," I said, prodding him in the arm. "I get how you figured out about the art and ambidextrous, but how did you know about Japan?"

"Ah." Sherlock nodded. "Yesterday, in your pocket I could see a wrapper sticking out. Kitkat, but not only that, sake-flavored Kitkat with Japanese Katakana on the wrapper. Now, it's possible it was a gift or you ordered it online, even possible that you only passed through Japan and grabbed some in the airport. However, your scarf's tag also has Katakana."

He reached over and gripped my yellow scarf and showed the small white tag sewed into the seam.

"Again, a possible pick up from an airport store, the ones in Japan are high end enough for a scarf of this quality," Sherlock said. "Yet, the scarf is starting to fray at some of the seams and the threads are stretched thin in some areas, giving away its age and how many times it's been washed. If we go with the theory that you've been in Japan since you got the scarf, I'd estimate you've been there about two years, possibly three, but you could have just worn the scarf often which would give it a more weathered appearance.

"Now we move on to your mannerisms. When you thank someone, you tend to bow a bit. You're also highly aware of your surroundings and are careful not to bump into anything or anyone. This is consistent with how people in Japan typically act. This along with your scarf says that you spent a long time there. Art is something that is rather big in Japan, so it's no surprise you would attempt to establish your career there."

"You knew I was bored," I murmured, narrowing my eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Another shot in the dark. I didn't put it together until I saw you again today. You tend to space out when people are talking about mundane things. You're polite, but distant; quiet. However, the moment there is a hint of excitement, you're fully engrossed; you talk more and ask questions. Hence the fourth suicide and wanting to come along. Of course, it's clear you care about your brother and want to help him, but he isn't the only reason you came back."

Sherlock glanced over me, his eyes narrowing.

"You claim that you are in as dire straights as your brother when it comes to finances, and yet you don't seem to be as worried about them. You're clothes are higher end, better quality than most, but still modest," Sherlock noted. "My guess is that you want to help your brother but you know he doesn't want to feel like a charity. So, you let him go through this song and dance of getting a flatmate with you so he can feel like he's contributing and you aren't taking care of him."

"Is that true?" John asked me.

I broke eye contact with Sherlock and began to fish for my phone. "I just remembered that I'm expecting a text—"

"Maxine!" John snapped, snatching my mobile away the moment I managed to free it. "You're not broke?"

I tried for the phone half-heartedly. "The text is important, if I could just—"

John shoved the phone back in my hand but did not take it off the device. "Why would you lie to me about that?"

I cleared my throat awkwardly and glanced at Sherlock. "How did you figure that out?" I murmured softly.

"Your mannerisms around him make it quite clear," Sherlock said. "Despite him having a bad leg, you keep your distance and let him get around on his own. To some this might seem cold, but you talk and interact with your brother like you're close. He's the only one that can call you 'Maddie' without you looking like you'd swallowed a lemon. So what does this tell us? You clearly care about him, but he doesn't want you fawning over him, so you respect this and keep back."

"Okay fine," I sighed, knowing I'd have to answer to John later because of this. "But how did any of that tell you I was bored in Japan?"

"Because you know your brother doesn't like people hovering over him, even his closest family, and with how much you respect that, one would think that you'd stay in Japan even when he returned back from deployment. Or at least only come to visit temporarily," Sherlock explained. "But you've come to stay, and you're well off when it comes to finances which says that failure wasn't why you left Japan. You came back not for your brother or for cash, but because you'd grown bored there."

Once again, I was astounded. He'd picked off that information out with practically nothing.

"That's amazing," I breathed.

"It is," John agreed. "It was extraordinary, truly extraordinary."

"Really?" Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?" John asked.

"'Piss off!'" Sherlock supplied with a grin.


	4. A Study in Pink, Part 3

The cab took a turn and flashing lights caught my attention. We must have arrived at the crime scene. I sat up and stared as our vehicle pulled over and Sherlock gave him the fare. There were three patrol cars and an ambulance parked near an apartment complex. We couldn't get close in the cab, so we climbed out and began hoofing it over toward the police tape.

I stretched my arms up; it seems despite the three of us being slim the ride in the middle of the back seat still stiffened me up.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

I glanced toward him to see he was peering between my and John quizzically. His eyes reflected the flashing lights of the police vehicles. I could tell he desperately wanted to know the answer to his question, but at the same time he seemed a touch nervous.

"I was in Japan for two years," I said. "Left after I got my masters. I prefer the eastern art styles."

"She's bloody good too," John said.

I shot him a grateful glance before sighing. "And I am getting on well. A company is publishing my manga, and now it's starting to get translated."

John looked irritated and didn't meet my eyes. I decided a change of subject was needed.

"Harry and John don't get on," I said.

"Never have," John added in a murmur. "Maddie was a bit better with being civil when we were younger but..."

"But now, I've had enough of it too," I said.

"Harry left Clara three months ago, they're getting a divorce," John said. "...And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then," Sherlock mused. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

Well, he hadn't guessed anything regarding Miyako or how my teacher was the one who sent me away from Japan to keep me safe, but that wasn't the only thing he missed.

John and I exchanged an amused grin.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, appearing suddenly put out.

"And Harry is short for Harriet," John explained.

Sherlock's face pinched in irritation and he stopped in his tracks. "Harry's your sister," he breathed.

"There it is," I said with a small gesture with my index finger.

"What exactly are we supposed to be doing here, by the way?" John asked as he continued toward the police tape ahead. I was surprised he wasn't reveling in getting something past Sherlock the way I was.

"Another _sister!_ " Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth and finally started walking again. "It's always something... Should have seen it coming from the odd nickname Max has."

"You are only human, Sherlock," I reminded him.

"No, seriously, what are we doing?" John pressed.

By now, we'd reached the police tape. A woman approached us, a police officer given her uniform. She had dark skin and her black hair poofed out in ringlets of ebony. It looked soft to the touch. She spotted Sherlock and her pretty face twisted up in disdain.

"Hello, freak," she greeted.

"Okay, that makes things immediately uncomfortable," I muttered.

"I wasn't talking to you," the woman snapped toward me. "But I can if you'd like. This is a crime scene."

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock informed her. "And please do attempt to treat my company with some semblance of decency; you don't even know them."

"Why?" the woman demanded.

"Because that's generally how people are expected to act?" I supplied with my brows both rising and pinching together.

"That's not what she means," Sherlock told me. Facing the woman again, he said, "I was invited."

"Why?" the woman repeated, this time more sharply.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock sighed.

"Well, you know what _I_ think?" The woman folded her arms, clearly growing more irritated by the second.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said as he reached down to grip the police tape and lifted it to allow himself under it. He paused beside the woman and I saw his nostrils flare as he took a breath in. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." the woman began, clearly flustered, but then she looked at me as I started to follow Sherlock under the tape. "Hold on just a second, who _are_ you? And you?" Her dark eyes flashed toward John.

"Colleagues of mine," Sherlock said. "Doctor Watson and his sister..." He suddenly turned toward me as I popped up on his side of the tape. "Do you have a title of any kind? Would it simply be Miss Watson?"

"That leads to misunderstandings a lot when John and I are in the same setting," I replied curtly. "Maxine is fine."

Sherlock raised a single brow and for a moment looked like he was going to speak again, but then the woman cut in.

"Colleagues? How does someone like you get a colleague?" she scoffed.

"Doctor Watson... and Maxine, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan," Sherlock introduced. "Old friend." He added the last bit with nothing but sarcasm.

"Did he follow you two home?" Donovan asked dryly toward us.

"Would it just be better if we waited—" John began.

"No," Sherlock said, gripping the tape and lifting it up for John.

John glanced to me, then to Donovan. She didn't make any move to stop him, and I was already at Sherlock's side. He stepped under the tape to join us.

"Freak's here," Donovan said into a radio clipped to her chest. "Bringing him in. He has a couple of... friends."

"Is this normal behavior for her?" I whispered to Sherlock.

"You'll find most people I deal with merely put up with me because they have to," Sherlock murmured back.

Before I could respond, there was another voice calling out to us.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear?"

I swiveled my head to face forward and saw a man had stepped out of the building. He was in a white coverall and was glaring at Sherlock with distaste.

"Anderson, I assume," I greeted. I remembered Sherlock mentioning the name back at the flat and that Anderson worked forensics. Clearly, this was him.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Anderson barked toward me. His face was gaunt and long and he had thick dark hair parted in the center. His nose was hooked and his lips thin as he pursed them into a tight line.

"If you did, that would be odd," I said.

Anderson fixated his gaze on Sherlock. "Who are they?" he demanded.

"Rude," I muttered when I was completely ignored.

"Yes, quite rude, I agree," Sherlock said as he stepped to my side. "I'm clear on not contaminating the crime scene. And is your wife gone for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson spat. "Someone told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock said.

"What?" Anderson was clearly confused.

"It's for men," Sherlock told him.

"Of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson shouted.

"So is Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock sniffed in pointedly. "Oh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson looked at Donovan who had gotten a bit darker in the cheeks. He shook his head as he fixated a glare on Sherlock. "Now look; whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock assured. He began leading the way toward the door. "I'm sure Sally just came 'round for a nice chat and happened to stay over." He paused and glanced back at Donovan. "And I'm assuming she scrubbed your floors by the state of her knees..."

John and I exchanged raised brows before taking a quick peek at Donovan's knees. Sure enough, what little skin showed was a touch discolored. I let out a low whistle as I followed after our new comrade, leaving Anderson and Donovan horror-struck behind us.

Just inside was what I could only describe as a prep room. There was a plastic sheet covering the doorway that led further into the building. I recognized the man that had come to the flat earlier; Lestrade, I assumed. He was pulling on a white coverall similar to Anderson's.

"Sherlock," he greeted.

Sherlock ignored him for the moment. He pointed at a pile of coveralls and looked to my brother and me. "You'll both need to wear one of these."

"All right, that's fine," I said as I went to pick one out. "Assuming they have some in our size..."

" _Our_ size? I'm taller than you," John pointed out irritably.

"Two inches isn't much, Johnny," I reminded him as I tossed the coveralls. "Especially with these general sized garments."

"Who are they?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"They're with me," Sherlock replied simply.

"But who _are_ they?" Lestrade pressed.

"I _said_ they're with me," Sherlock said. His voice held a surprising amount of authority.

I put aside my coat and then my scarf, the latter with a small amount of reluctance. I began to pull on a coverall I found that might fit me. It still ended up being a tad too big and bagged around the cuffs of the sleeves and the hems of the legs. I had kicked off my boots and put the little cloth covers over my socks.

"They're meant to go over your shoes," John told me.

"You know I don't like shoes," I said flatly.

John sighed as he pulled on his over coverall. He glanced toward Sherlock, who was merely waiting patiently. He'd pulled off his winter gloves and replaced them with latex ones. "Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked him.

Sherlock merely stared at him with a pointed look.

John sighed and shrugged at me and I grinned back at him. I could feel my heart thrumming in my neck. This had to be the most interesting and exciting think I'd ever done. A _crime scene._ I felt like I was in one of my manga volumes. Of course, I didn't have magic running through my veins like my protagonist did.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade once we were all ready.

"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.

So up we went.

The stairwell was made up of dark wood and stretched up two flights. As we ascended, Lestrade glanced back at us.

"I can give you two minutes," he said.

"May need longer," Sherlock replied, his voice holding an air of simplicity. Like he was talking about cooking a meal.

"We've gathered that her name is Jennifer Wilson," Lestrade went on after only a small look toward the detective. "That's what's on her credit cards anyway. We're running them now for contact details. She hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

"That's unfortunate," I murmured.

"Yes," Lestrade agreed. He reached a door and opened it, allowing us inside.

The room was small and void of furniture, save a wooden rocking horse in the corner. There was some scaffolding propping up the far wall and there were a few holes gaping in it and the floor. There were bright spotlights set up around the edges of the room, most likely put there by the police. They all pointed toward the center of the room where she laid: the first dead body I've ever seen.

Perhaps it was nice that she was face down and there wasn't any blood or any obvious signs that she wasn't just passed out. However, I could... feel it. The woman on the floorboards before me was a shell—empty of life that once allowed her to walk and talk and smile.

She had long brown hair. It was a touch messy, which I found odd considering how immaculate her nails were and the obvious high quality of her bright pink overcoat. Her shoes matched its color, high heels that spoke of a woman who cared deeply of her appearance. I wasn't that close to her, but it was like I could _sense_ the stiffness in her limbs. No one could ever be that still and be alive.

Her left hand was near something that had been carved into the wooden floor. I could see the nails on that hand were chipped and the tips of her fingers looked raw. She'd been the one to put that there- the message Lestrade had mentioned back at the flat. It merely said: _RACHE._

John's face twisted up in sadness and he let out a breath of something akin to grief. He gripped my shoulder and glanced at me warily. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were clearly asking if I was okay. The odd thing was... I was fine.

It made no sense. Here was my brother, who had seen more death and violence than anyone should. He clearly felt a certain level of anguish at the sight before us. However, I felt nothing but sheer curiosity within me. What was that message supposed to mean? How was it she was the fourth person to commit suicide in this fashion? How did she even die? I wasn't the doctor here, my brother was, but I was going to assume overdose.

I forced all the insistent questions in my mind to calm down enough for me to give John a tight nod. I forced a grimace to my face in an attempt to show him I was feeling something like him. This wasn't the first time I didn't want my brother to realize how far from normal I could be. I never knew how I'd react to seeing a dead body, but I know for sure I wasn't expecting to feel... nothing.

Sherlock stared down at the body, his brilliant green eyes flicking over it with the intensity and accuracy of a lizard examining a bug. It wasn't so much that he was looking at the woman's motionless form like he wanted to eat it, but there certainly was something akin to hunger in his expression. Hunger for information, I was willing to bet. He lifted a hand and aimed it at her, as if trying to pull information from her by sheer will.

Then, without warning, he whipped his head around and snapped abruptly at Lestrade. "Shut up."

Lestrade was clearly startled. "I didn't say anything!" he insisted.

"You're thinking; it's annoying," Sherlock muttered, looking back at the body.

Lestrade, John, and I all shared a surprised look, all of us with our brows raised. Sherlock stepped slowly forward to the side of the woman's corpse. His gaze locked onto the woman's scratched message in the floorboards. I too stared at it, trying to force it to make sense. I saw Sherlock give a small shake of his head, as if dismissing something. He was surely thinking of possible meanings.

I took a small, tentative step forward. My socked feet allowed my movement to be silent as a whisper. Rache... What in the world could that—oh. I saw that the E was barely finished. Her hand was closest to the last letter. She wanted to put more.

Okay, so she was left handed... she wanted to put more, but no normal words started with the letters she'd put. Unless it wasn't a word she was trying to carve. A name? Rachel?

Sherlock squatted down beside the woman and ran his gloved fingers along the back of her pink coat. He lifted his hand and I saw the light reflect oddly off his fingertips. It seemed there was moisture on the woman's coat. Had the woman gone through the rain? The detective then searched her coat pockets with a level of delicacy that would be highly beneficial to any artist. From a pocket he pulled a white folding umbrella. He runs his fingers over its folds and frowns.

 _The umbrella is dry,_ I realized. _Why would someone who cares so deeply for her appearance run through the rain when she had an umbrella?_

I inched closer. It seemed Lestrade and John were both too engrossed with Sherlock to notice me. I slowly made my way around to be closer to the woman's head. I kept about a meter back to give Sherlock plenty of space. I crouched down, hugging my knees to my chest and balancing on my toes as I watched the detective work.

Sherlock replaced the umbrella into her pocket and then swiped his fingers under the collar of her coat. They gleamed when he removed them. More moisture. She'd turned her collar up against the rain rather than go for her umbrella.

The detective dug a hand into his own pocket and produced a small magnifier. He clicked it open and leaned down toward the woman's left wrist to inspect the gold bracelet there. I tilted my head. Why was her jewelry important? She was clearly a woman with expensive taste... I watched as Sherlock moved to look at a gold earring on her left ear and a gold chain around her neck. 

However, when Sherlock moved to the rings on her left hand, he paused. He began to blink rapidly and his forehead wrinkled a touch. He found something different- something of note. With prudent precision, he reached down and worked off the wedding ring. It was gold, like the rest of her jewelry. Sherlock tilted it before his magnifier with a frown.

My brow furrowed as I tried to figure out what was so important about the ring. Sherlock had proved that if someone was just observant enough, they could yield all the information they needed. So what information was that ring giving him?

Suddenly, a small, victorious smile captured Sherlock's lips. He slipped the ring back on the woman's finger and he got to his feet.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Not much," Sherlock confessed casually.

"She's German." Anderson had followed us up. He stood in the doorway now and pointed toward the carved message in the floor. "Rache, it means revenge in German. Perhaps she was—"

"Yes, thank you!" Sherlock sang as he strode over and slammed the door in Anderson's face.

I shook my head and looked down at the message near my toes. "Not likely," I said. "I think she was trying to write 'Rachel.'"

Sherlock paused and turned to stare down at me. "Yes. I think so too," he murmured.

"It's not very flattering that you look so surprised," I told him. "Other people are capable of intelligent thought."

"Yes, but not often," Sherlock sighed. He pulled out his phone and began to type away on it.

"So she's not German?" Lestrade queried.

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "But she is from out of town. She only intended to stay in London for one night."

The image of him pulling off the woman's ring flashed in my mind.

"That's why you were looking at the ring," I murmured. "She's a harpy. Er... _was_ a harpy..."

"You're certainly on point, Max," Sherlock muttered. He grinned a bit at his mobile. "Yes, she was going to have a delightful time with a man that wasn't her husband before heading back home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"I'm sorry—obvious?" John echoed.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade pressed.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock asked John, electing to ignore the questions.

"About the message?" John appeared confused.

"About the body," Sherlock clarified. "You're a medical man."

"Wait- no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade said.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock reminded him.

"I'm breaking every rule by letting _you_ in here," Lestrade said.

"Yes... because you need me." Sherlock held the Detective Inspector's gaze unflinchingly.

Lestrade stared back for a heartbeat or two before he sighed in defeat and glanced away. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock prompted.

"Hm?" John had been staring at the body. He lifted his head and glanced toward Lestrade, a silent question in his eyes.

"Oh, do as he says," Lestrade grunted. He headed to the door and opened it. As he walked outside, I heard him say, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a few minutes."

Once the door closed behind Lestrade, John limped forward to get a closer look at the body. He lowered himself down, his expression flooding with pain as he did so. He gripped his cane for support with one hand.

Sherlock knelt down on the woman's other side as I inched closer to her head.

"Well?" Sherlock asked John.

"What am I doing here?" John demanded. "What is Maddie doing here? You've put her in a state of shock—she can't even show her emotions properly about this!"

"I'm fine," I assured my brother.

He cast me a doubtful look. "I told you this wasn't going to be like your stories."

"She's telling the truth," Sherlock said. "She's fine. Now, what can you tell me? You're here to help me prove a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," John said.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," Sherlock replied.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John looked both bewildered and offended. He glanced at me. "Maddie, do you need to step outside?"

I blinked in confusion and met his gaze. "No?" The word ended up coming out like a question. I didn't understand why John thought I would need to leave the room.

My brother stared at me for a few more heartbeats. His brow was furrowed as if he were trying to work out an equation. Then, he shook his head and focused on the corpse before him. John shifted his bad leg with a grimace to get in a better position and reached down to gently take up the woman's right hand. His eyes scanned her pallid flesh for a moment then he delicately placed her hand back down.

"Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably," John said. "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock cocked his head and stared at my brother. "You know what it was. You've read the papers."

John blinked. "What—she's one of the suicides? The fourth...?"

"That's what he said before Lestrade barged into the flat," I said. I then looked up to see Lestrade was in the doorway, leaning there with one brow raised. "Oh. Hello Detective Inspector," I greeted him with a small wave.

Lestrade shook his head at me and instead spoke to Sherlock. "Sherlock—two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock got to his feet and faced Lestrade while John struggled to straighten. I nearly came to his aid, but the moment I stood up, my brother shot me a stern look. I cleared my throat awkwardly and focused on Sherlock.

"Victim is in her late thirties," Sherlock told Lestrade. "Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink... Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.

Lestrade blinked. "Suitcase?"

I exchanged a confused look with John. He shrugged. Seems he hadn't seen a suitcase either.

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock went on without skipping a beat. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, you're just making this up," Lestrade accused.

"Oooh," I said, eyes widening with realization. "That's why you were looking at her ring. The rest of her jewelry is clean and the ring isn't, right?"

Sherlock turned to face me, head tilted. "Yes, unless you look at the inside of it... Quite astute of you, Max." He pointed down at the woman. "The ring is at least ten years old. As Max said, the rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside- that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what- or rather who- does she remove her ring for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

I had initially felt proud I noticed something that Sherlock had about the ring, but the clearly not nearly as much as he did. I deflated and stared down at the woman's left hand. How was it he could notice everything?

"That's brilliant," John said, blinking with astonishment.

Sherlock shot him a small look that was rather difficult to place the mood of. Part of me found it to be pleased but another seemed annoyed.

"Sorry," John muttered, looking at the floor.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade said. I was surprised that was the first thing he wanted to question.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not obvious to me," John confessed.

Sherlock looked between us. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Is it because it recently rained and there were high winds in Cardiff?" I queried.

Sherlock fixed his green eyes on me, brows raising. "Yes. Yes that's right. Care to explain for our company?" He gestured toward my brother and Lestrade.

I shrugged and stepped forward. "When Sherlock was looking at her, I saw the light on his fingertips. Uh- see, latex reflects dampness quite obviously... So I could tell when he found moisture on... on Mrs. Wilson." It was strange calling the dead woman by her name. It made her more real. That didn't make me too comfortable. I waved a hand toward her body. "The back of her coat is wet, so is the fabric under her collar. She has a umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry. She's dressed far too nicely to have gone willingly through a downpour without using her umbrella... so there had to have been wind that was too strong to allow her to use it."

Sherlock took a small step back from me and stared with eyes that were both impressed and confused.

"Yes," he said. "Max, you're proving to be quite useful." He looked over at Lestrade again. "The victim's suitcase tells us that she packed enough for an overnight stay, so she must be coming from afar, but not too far because her coat would have dried, so that helped narrow my search. Within a two to three hour radius, where have there been rain and strong winds?" He showed his mobile to Lestrade. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock turned to him. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry," John said. "I'll shut up."

"No, it's... fine." Sherlock seemed to be a touch confused for a moment. I could guess he wasn't used to compliments. Part of me could understand why not, but on the other hand I couldn't fathom it. Sherlock was clearly brilliant. He wasn't exactly smooth with socialization, but part of me had a feeling that was because he didn't want to waste energy on people who treated him like dirt. Not to mention, I knew how it was to be disinterested with average conversation.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock snapped back to attention and spun to examine the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"You're sure she was writing 'Rachel?'" Lestrade pressed.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German- of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock pressed a hand to his chin.

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock pointed down at the woman's body, specifically at her legs. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand," he explained irritably. "Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying the night."

The detective went to the corpse and squatted down at her side. He examined her leg more closely, narrowing his eyes.

"Now where is it?" Sherlock demanded. "What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head and frowned at the Detective Inspector. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade insisted. "There was never any suitcase."

With abrupt intensity, Sherlock hopped to his feet and strode to the door. "Suitcase!" he called as he left the room and began heading down the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was clearly exacerbated. "There was no case!"

John and I followed the Detective Inspector out of the room and we looked over the railing at Sherlock who was still heading downstairs. He slowed a bit, his face struck with concentration.

"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks— _and?_ " Lestrade demanded.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings- _serial_ killings." Sherlock had stopped now on the landing below us. He held up his hands in front of his face and beamed with delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those- there's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock waved him off dismissively. "Her case!" he insisted. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." His voice suddenly lowered and his eyes glassed over as they fell on the wall before him. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case in the car..."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," John suggested.

"No, she never got to the hotel," Sherlock said, facing us again. "Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking... " He trailed off and his eyes grew foggy again. He stared at nothing in particular for a few heartbeats, then he stiffened. "Oh," he breathed. He clapped his hands together and gave a small jump of delight. " _Oh!_ "

"Sherlock?" John pressed.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock was beaming again. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade said.

"Oh we're _done_ waiting!" Sherlock exclaimed and began to hurry down the stairs again. "Look at her, _really look!_ Houston, we _have_ a mistake. Get on to Cardiff; find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the steps and vanished from view.

"Of course yeah- but what mistake?" Lestrade bellowed after him.

Sherlock appeared again, gripping the railing of the stairs. "PINK!" he shouted, and then he was gone again.

Lestrade shook his head, clearly confused. He turned and began to head back into the room. Anderson and a few other people in coveralls came up the steps after him.

"Let's get on with it," Anderson muttered as he passed us.

I looked over at John and shrugged. "Well, this was... interesting."

John exhaled heavily through his mouth and nodded. Together, we began to head down the stairs.

Once we ditched the coveralls and got our coats, (and in my case my shoes and scarf), we headed back outside. The night was even more complete now, and with it came a biting chill. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I stretched my hands up and folded them behind my head.

"Not what I expected," I admitted.

"Seeing your first dead body never is," John muttered. He glanced at me. "You... you really were okay." He stated it as fact, not a question.

I wasn't sure why I was embarrassed about his baffled look. "Yeah. I mean... she was gone. A shell. No use fixating on it; her killer is still on the loose. That's what needs attention."

"I suppose so," John sighed and nodded. "I guess... I'm not used to you being so... grown up."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Still."

He laughed as I smiled a little and made our way toward the police tape. Donovan was standing where we originally met her. She spotted us approaching and and gave a small nod.

"He's gone," she said.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John clarified.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that," Donovan replied.

"Oh. I guess we'll have to..." I looked around. "I know he said Brixton, but... where can we get a cab?" I couldn't help but make a small glance at John's leg before I added, "I'm not a hug fan of walking for miles."

"She means to say my leg won't let us walk for miles." John elbowed me.

"I was trying to be sly," I told him.

"You're horrid at it," John retorted.

Donovan actually smiled a bit in amusement. "Try the main road," she said, gesturing down the road we were currently on before lifting the tape for us.

"Thanks," John said as we ducked under.

"But you two aren't his friends," Donovan said suddenly, forcing us to look back at her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

John and I looked at one another before my brother shrugged. "We're... we're no one. We just met him."

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy." Donovan's dark gaze was piercing and darted between my brother and me.

"Why?" I asked.

"You know why he's here?" Donovan placed on hand on her hip. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

I raised my brows and opened my mouth, but John gripped my shoulder firmly.

"Why would he do that?" he asked.

"Because he's a psychopath," Donovan answered simply. "And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice came echoing from the building's entrance.

"Coming!" Donovan called back and began to walk back toward the door. She glanced back once and said, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." Then she turned away and kept on going.

John and I watched her for a few more moments before I shook my head and began to lead the way up the road.

 _Psychopaths get bored._

Donovan's words were a bit more haunting than I liked. I always knew I was... different. Sometimes I felt _wrong._ But a psychopath...

"She might have a point," John suddenly said. "He is... well..."

"Sherlock is... different," I said, "but he isn't a killer."

"What makes you so sure?" John asked.

"Because he..." I began. _He's like me,_ I thought.

It was true. Sherlock wasn't appreciative of the company of other people; he clearly found the majority of the population dull and listless. He had to find common living lacking of any color- he had to find any 9-5 jobs mundane and monotonous. Anything normal- anything typical or predictable- all it did was drain his energy. It made him crave something more, and that craving wasn't something easily sated.

My boredom had been with me ever since I could remember. As I aged, I found that every time I managed to find something to sate that boredom, after a while it too became boring. It was like taking medication for too long and building up an immunity. I had to find something more interesting than the last; something more daring- something more... risky.

My latest journey was going to Japan with nothing but one backpack and my sketchbook. I'd made it work, and living there and making my manga was enough to keep me pacified for two years. Drawing was the only thing that was a constant in my line of things I did with my life. It seems that my attention to detail could come in handy with my new... hobby.

Sherlock Holmes... he had found his medication. Perhaps it could be my medicine too.

"Maddie?" John prompted.

I shook my head. "Sherlock isn't a killer," I repeated. "I'm good at reading people, you know that."

John glanced at me for a moment. "You... you actually find this fun."

"You don't?" I wriggled my brows at him.

John sighed. "Let's just find a cab, shall we?"

I smiled and nodded. One thing was for certain: I wasn't going to be bored for a while.


	5. A Study in Pink, Part 4

The main road ended up being quite a trek from the crime scene, but John and I eventually found it. We strode along the sidewalk, passing closed shops and cafes. I was a bit bummed it was so late; I could go for some tea.

"Taxi!" John suddenly cried and stepped toward the curb with his hand raised. A black cab drove right on by and John watched it go mournfully. "Taxi..."

"I don't think they can hear you," I pointed out.

"Thank you, I would have never guessed," John replied sarcastically.

"Right, I'm doing that thing again," I said. "What does Harry call it?"

"Pointing out the obvious," John sighed.

"Yes, but most things are obvious to me," I countered. "However it isn't to others. Except for Sherlock. He somehow notices more than me."

"Is that why you were so enthralled?" John asked.

"That. And I still want to draw him."

John laughed and shook his head. "You and curly hair..."

As we continued down the road, the phone in the telephone box we were passing began to ring. We both paused to look at it for a moment before exchanging a shrug and moving on. We didn't even get a block down the street before the sound of ringing plagued us again. John gestured toward a fast food place we were going by; Chicken Cottage. It was one of the few places that were still open. As we watched, an employee went toward their public phone, but the moment their hand touched the receiver, the ringing stopped.

"Lots of weird calls tonight," I noted.

We went another two blocks and passed yet another red telephone box.

The phone inside began to ring.

"Hey John?" I said as we paused.

"Yeah?" My brother didn't take his eyes off the telephone box.

"I'm going to point out something that's obvious to me just in case it isn't to you," I told him. "The phone is for us."

John cast me a small nod and limped over to the box to open the door. I once again counted us lucky that we were small as we both slipped inside. My brother reached toward the phone, hesitated for a brief moment, then picked it up.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

I couldn't quite make out what the person said on the other line, but I could tell the voice belonged to a man.

"Who's this?" John demanded. "Who's speaking?"

The low tone droned something to him and my brother suddenly looked to the left. Confused, I followed his gaze and saw he was staring at a security camera that clung to a building. It was pointing right at us.

"Yeah, I see it," John replied.

The voice said something, and then the camera moved. It took its attention off of the phone box and down the street.

John blinked rapidly and then beckoned for me to come closer, holding the phone out slightly from his ear. I leaned in, and when the man on the other line spoke, I could hear him clearly. He sounded calm and professional; his voice was smooth and low.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John and I looked warily at each other before casting our gazes across the street. Sure enough, there was another camera staring at us.

"Mm-hmm." John's lips were pursed. I could see a light of something akin to panic beginning to tint his features.

If my military brother was worried about something, it couldn't be good. As soon as John gave the man the confirmation, the camera swiveled away, as if it were shy that it had been noticed.

"And finally, at the top of the building to your right," the man said.

We both turned to look, not bothering to hesitate. There was indeed a third camera, and the moment we stared at it, it looked away and did not look back. I stared around at all the cameras. None of them were looking at this part of the street now. If something were to happen...

"How are you doing this?" John breathed.

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson," the man drawled. "And do bring your sister with you."

A black car pulled up to the curb outside on the otherwise deserted street. John stiffened and I saw his eyes dart all around us. I guessed he was searching for help—witnesses—anything. However, at this time of night, it wasn't a surprise that there wasn't a soul to be found.

"I'll go, but Maxine—" John began.

"Mm, no, no..." the man cut him off. "Both of you. I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

The line went dead.

John stared at the phone for a moment before hanging it up. His fingers ran over one another—not his nervous hand tremor, but the motion he'd always done when trying to figure something out.

"Maxine." He used my full name as he looked into my eyes. "I think you need to run."

"And if they have guns?" I asked. My voice was steady as I eyed the car.

John cursed under his breath and glanced toward the vehicle.

"We don't have a choice," I told him. Besides, I found myself quite curious to discover what this was all about. How did the man know who we were? What did he want?

"Come on." John left the phone box first. "Don't let them separate us. Grab my arm."

"John—" I began.

"Just do it, will you?" John barked as we approached the car.

I sighed and gripped his elbow. It felt childish, like I was back in grade school and he was walking me home. He'd always been protective and I supposed this situation called for it. Perhaps I shouldn't be so focused on being embarrassed and more intent on the fact that we were probably being kidnapped.

No-one got out of the car to greet us. The windows were too darkly tinted for me to make out anything inside besides a silhouette in the driver's seat. John gripped the back passenger door and opened it. To my surprise, there was a rather pretty woman sitting on the far side of the backseat. She had locks of dark hair and her face carried a tasteful but vibrant amount of makeup. She had a mobile in her hands and didn't even bother to look at us as she typed away on its keyboard.

John stared at her for a moment, taken off guard. She tilted her head and her eyes flicked toward us.

"We don't have all night," she said.

"Right," John murmured. He began to slide in.

"You don't want me in the middle?" I asked him.

He glanced back at me. "No, you take the window—you get carsick, remember?"

Ah. He wanted the middle to keep between me and the woman. His cover wasn't exactly clever, but I'd take it.

I sat down once John awkwardly and painfully drug himself into the middle of the backseat. I closed the door and the car pulled away from the curb before I could even reach for my seatbelt. I heard the doors lock.

I buckled in and John did the same. We looked at one another for a moment. I could tell that the cogs in John's head were whirring. He was trying to figure out a way to get us out of this—whatever _this_ was. We rode in silence for a few minutes. The car pulled onto the highway and we began to leave the heart of the city. I wasn't sure what part of London we were headed to; it had been to long since I'd been here and my memory was foggy of the city's layout.

John suddenly turned to the woman on his right. "Hello," he said.

She'd been ignoring both of us since we'd gotten into the car. She glanced at my brother and gave him a bright smile. "Hi," she replied, then went back to her phone.

"What's your name, then?" John asked awkwardly.

"Er..." The woman contemplated for a few heartbeats. "Anthea."

"Is that your real name?" John queried.

The woman smiled again. "No."

"I'll be calling you Anthea for simplicity's sake," I muttered.

"Quiet, Maxine," John ordered. Again, he used my full name; he must be feeling stressed. He looked toward Anthea. "I'm John, this is my sister, Maxine."

"I know who both of you are," Anthea replied calmly, not looking up from her mobile.

"Any point in asking where we're going?" John asked.

Anthea raised her head from her phone. "None at all," she replied with another infuriatingly sweet grin. "...John and Maxine." She seemed to add our names for either comedic or dramatic effect.

"Okay..." John sighed.

He glanced in my direction and gripped my knee before giving me a reassuring smile. I knew my brother well—he was under the impression that I was scared. However, all I could process in that moment was a sense of annoyance. It was nearly midnight and I had planned on getting up early in the morning to see if I could assist Sherlock with his case. I had found analyzing how that woman died... fascinating.

One thing was for certain though: this wasn't boring.

So, knowing John might very well be more strained if his little sister didn't seem to be taking this seriously, I gave him a wary grin and nodded shakily. It was a gesture to show him I could be worried, but I knew he would protect me if it came down to it.

We drove on for about a half hour. We were well out of the city limits, and I busied myself with looking up at the stars to find constellations. Finally, a building appeared in the distance and when it grew close, the car turned toward it. It was a large warehouse bearing sleek metal siding and a curved red roof. The car drove right into it through one of the wide openings on the side. As we pulled in, the lights turned on to reveal a few crates and large containers full of unknown things, but mostly it was empty.

Save the two chairs and the tall figure of a man toward the very center of it.

The car stopped and Anthea gave John and I a pointed look—our cue to get out.

"Right," I breathed before opening the door and exiting the vehicle. It had been my second long drive stuffed in a back seat with two other people, so my body was pleased when I stretched out my limbs.

John had a little trouble getting out after me. I offered him my hand, but he waved me off and gripped the door to yank himself to a standing position. Once my brother closed the door behind him, we made our way toward the two chairs and the man.

He was tall and a little portly in the belly, but his face was boney and he had a angular nose that he peered down with dark, beady eyes. He wore a nicely-tailored black suit, a white undershirt, and a tie. He leaned on a black umbrella casually and smiled at us when we finally reached the chairs and paused.

"Have a seat, please," the man said, pointing toward the chairs with his umbrella.

"You know, I've got a phone," John told him, not making a move toward the chairs. "I mean, very clever and all that, but you could have just phoned me. On my phone." He gave a tight smile.

When I started toward the chairs, John lifted his free arm to stop me.

"What?" I said. "I'm tired."

"You've been sitting for the past forty-five minutes," John retorted.

"Ah, sibling rivalry," the man mused, his gaze darting back and forth between us. "How quant."

"Why did you drag us all the way out here?" I asked him.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet; hence this place." His once pleasant voice grew clipped and a touch irate. He fixated his eyes on John. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." It almost sounded like an order now.

My heart gave a small stammer. I flicked my gaze over the man; he didn't appear to have a weapon on him. I glanced around the warehouse. There were so many random crates about... could be there were armed men behind them. Oddly, I didn't feel any fear for my own wellbeing—it was John I was worried about.

"I don't want to sit down," John told him.

The man tilted his head. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," John replied without missing a beat.

"Hooo..." I breathed with an exhale, impressed with my brother's quick comeback and hoping it wouldn't bite us in the ass.

The man chuckled. "Ah yes, the bravery of the soldier," he said. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" His gaze flicked to me. "I mean, it's not just you standing here in this warehouse with me."

John took a small step in front of me and gripped my arm. His face had gone from annoyed to angry.

"What do you want with us?" he demanded.

It was a bit demeaning and frustrating being the one threatened my this man to keep John in line. I knew a lot of martial arts thanks to Miyako, but I'd never used it outside of class. I wasn't experienced like my brother. I didn't know how to shoot a gun; hell, I'd only just seen my first dead body today. Yet, I was not comfortable with being pegged as the one to use in this way—the damsel in distress...

Was my brother right? Here I was, in a possible life or death situation, and all I could do was compare it to all the adventure and fantasy storylines I drew or read.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, lifting his head and once again staring down his nose at us.

"We don't have one," John said. "We barely know him. We met him..." He trailed off and blinked a few times. "...yesterday."

I realized why my brother was so surprised. So little time had passed since we were introduced to the detective, yet it felt like it had been a full week. How was it so many insane things could all happen in one day?

"Mm, and since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're all solving crimes together," the man said, his beady eyes narrowing. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? Which of you do you think he'd wed?"

I blinked and shook my head. "Sherlock doesn't seem the romantic type," I said. "If you know anything about him, surely you'd realize that. I'm not sure he even knows what romance is."

"You're probably right on the first bit, but he certainly knows what it is," the man said. "He understands almost everything about the human mind and how it acts."

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"An interested party," the man answered simply.

"Interested in Sherlock?" John frowned. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"Well, given how both of you love to flaunt your intelligence, please tell me you two aren't so alike that you'll keep us waiting for the answer," I said. I was growing impatient with the man drawing this out. If this was going to be a dangerous situation, it could at least get over with faster.

"Maxine, let me do the talking," John ordered.

"She's quite right," the man said. "Sherlock and I have some common habits. And to answer your unasked question: I am his enemy."

"His enemy?" John echoed, clearly confused.

"In _his_ mind, certainly," the man said bitterly. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch-_ enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John pointedly looked around the warehouse and gestured to it with his cane. "Well, thank God _you're_ above all that."

The man frowned. I opened my mouth to speak, intending on demanding more answers, but something buzzed in my pocket the same time John's phone chimed. We both pulled out our mobiles.

Mine was a text message. In fact, it was a group message that was sent to John and me. It read: _Come at once if convenient, SH._ I glanced toward my brother as he looked up from his phone toward me.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the man said, his voice low and suddenly dangerous.

"Not distracting me at all," John said, turning his attention back to him as he pocketed his mobile.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man queried.

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business," John said.

"It _could_ be," the man said.

"It _really_ couldn't," John retorted.

The man took out a notebook from his inside pocket and opened it to rake his eye over its contents. "If you _do_ move into, ah... two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis."

"For what?" I asked, only earning a small glare from John. "And why?"

"Because John is not a wealthy man," the man said. "In exchange, I want nothing indiscreet. Nothing either of you would feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

I couldn't help but notice he never said I wasn't wealthy. Did he know how much money I made?

"Why?" John said.

"I worry about him," the man confessed. "Constantly." I honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"That's nice of you," John replied disbelievingly.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the man said. "We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

My phone buzzed again and John's chimed. We took one glance at one another before pulling them out of our pockets and checking the message.

 _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

I let out a small breath of amusement. He was certainly demanding. If only he knew our current situation.

"I really am beginning to think I'm out of an inside joke," the man said, smiling sweetly at me. Of course, a shark could have smiled sweeter.

I met his beady gaze and noticed there was a somewhat familiar shape to his eyes and cheekbones. I awkwardly cleared my throat and shrugged. "Cat photos," I said.

"Mine was just... our land lady," John murmured.

"I see." The man's smile grew. "You do have something in common: you're both terrible liars."

"And yet, you're asking us to spy for you." I said.

"Maddie," John whispered sharply at me. Well, he was using my nickname again, so he must be more comfortable now. My brother turned his attention back to the man. "The answer is no."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," the man said, obviously surprised.

"Don't bother," John replied curtly.

The man chuckled. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested. And I won't have Maxine mixed up in something like this either," John said.

"I can handle myself," I muttered.

"You don't see the danger in this man? Really?" John hissed at me.

"It's not that she needs the money, anyway," the man said. "Maxine Watson, or... Dakota Lyheart... is quite widely known in Japan, or at least her manga is. Manga—that's what it's called, yes?"

I nodded tightly. "You found my pen name?"

The man ignored me as he pulled a small notebook from the inside of his suit jacket. He flipped it open and read from it: " _MANA,_ it's called. Something about a world with both magic and advanced technology..."

"We've known Sherlock for less than a day, yet you manage to gather all this research," I murmured. "What sort of position must you be in where you can do that?"

"Then there's John..." The man completely ignored me and turned a page in his notebook. "'Trust issues,' it says here."

John blinked and his expression went slack. It was the first time since the start of this wild encounter that my brother actually looked unnerved. "What's that?" he demanded.

The man ignored him, keeping his eyes on the notebook. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" John adjusted his stance. I wasn't sure if it was his leg bothering him or he just felt uncomfortable in his own skin at that moment.

"You don't seem to make friends easily," the man pointed out. He glanced toward me. "Neither of you do. Two years spent in Japan, and yet... the only people who know of you there are your publishers."

"Are we done?" John asked, his lips pursed.

"You tell me," the man replied.

John stared at him for a moment longer before turning and beginning to limp away. "Maddie, let's go."

"Nice to meet you." I bowed my head slightly toward the man. "Though, next time, seriously, just call us."

As I began to follow my brother, the man called after us. "I imagine people have already warned you both to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but I can see by John's left hand that's not going to happen for him, at least."

John froze. His shoulders tensed and I could see his jaw clench before he gave an angry shake of his head. He whirled back around to glare at the man. "My what?" he snarled through clenched teeth.

His tremor... of course. John had barely talked to me about it, and when he had, it hadn't been willingly. I'd practically pried the information from him when I saw it for the first time when he originally came back to England.

"Show me," the man ordered calmly, and nodded toward John's left hand. He planted the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leaned on it casually—clearly a man that was used to his orders being obeyed.

John, however, wasn't intimidated. He squared up and lifted his left hand, but he made no move to go forward. If the man wanted to look at it, he was going to have to come to John. The man didn't seem fazed by John's small act of defiance. He pushed off his umbrella and hooked the handle of it over his arm as he approached. When he reached us, he went to grip John's hand.

"Don't," John breathed and jerked his hand back a bit.

The man slowly lowered his head and raised his brows. John hesitated a moment longer, then reluctantly offered his hand again. The man gripped it with both of his own and examined it closely.

"Remarkable," he murmured.

"What is?" John asked as he snatched he hand back.

The man turned and strode a few paces away. "Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned toward us once more and his eyes locked on John. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" John demanded.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," the man stated rather than asked.

John nodded tightly.

It clicked for me in that instant. I took a step back and looked from John to the man. The latter smiled at me.

"I see Maxine has figured it out," he mused.

"What?" John looked between us, clearly irritated.

"Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder," the man said. "She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who the hell are you?" John bellowed. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her," the man replied. "She's got it the wrong way 'round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John spared his left hand a small glance before continuing to glare viciously at the man.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson," the man said slowly.

I finished the sentence for him. "You miss it," I breathed.

John twisted around to gape at me. "What?"

"It's true," the man murmured. "Well, John... welcome back."

John glanced toward the man then back to me. He looked aghast. I shrugged sheepishly.

"As for Maxine," the man went on, clicking his umbrella against the concrete, "you grow bored easily, seek danger and excitement most would find foolish due to it being so... life-threatening. Not only that, but you seek challenges... Maxine, my dear girl, you might have more in common with Sherlock Holmes than I'm comfortable with..."

I frowned at him. "I take it you mean the general disconnect from other people," I said. "Well. At least I keep family close." I offered a small smile.

The man snorted softly and shook his head, clearly annoyed. He thought he had been so clever, but some things never strayed from an artist's eyes.

"Let's go, Maddie," John said. He turned and gripped my arm to start leading the way back to the car.

As we went, our phones went off again. John and I locked eyes for a moment. It was as if we had an entire conversation in that single look.

 _He's right about me missing the war,_ John's eyes said.

 _And I do crave danger—what sane person does that?_ mine replied.

 _Well, at least we have something else in common—we're both morons._

 _Morons with a new flatmate that could be the ticket to what we both want._

"Time to choose a side, Watsons," the man called, clearly noticing us freezing in place.

We both turned to spare the man one last look over. I saw John move his fingers over one another out of the corner of my eye. I bit down on the inside of my lip and sucked on my cheek. I wanted to ask the man what these sides were. Was it him against Sherlock? Now that we'd been introduced into the detective's life was there no exiting? The man did welcome John back to a war.

My heart beat insistently in my ears.

There was a sound behind us and I turned to see Anthea stepping out of the backseat of the black car. Her attention was still on her mobile, but she did spare us a small glance as she said, "I'm to take you home."

In unison, John and I took out our own phones, as if the presence of Anthea's reminded us that we had another message waiting.

 _Could be dangerous. SH_

John and I slowly lifted our eyes to each other's. I smirked a bit and bounced my eyebrows. John lifted his left hand and stared at it while it remained perfectly steady.

"Address?" Anthea prompted.

John turned to her. "Baker Street," he said, smiling wryly. "Two two one B Baker Street. But we need to stop off somewhere first."


	6. A Study in Pink, Part 5

The black car pulled up outside our new flat. I waited for John to get out of the backseat; when it was clear that there was no immediate danger from the mysterious tall man or his companions, I'd been stuck in the middle again. We'd gone by John's old room where my brother had grabbed a pistol he'd had waiting in a drawer. I'd taken an abrupt step back, impressed.

"What d'you need that for?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Sherlock said there might be danger," John reminded me.

"So you need a _gun?_ "

"Think of it as insurance—especially since my little sister is involved with this."

I waved him off. "I don't know how many times I need to tell you that I can take care of myself." I opened my bag and pulled out a small dagger.

"Why do you have that?" John demanded.

"A Japanese man made it for me in exchange for some autographs," I murmured. "He engraved my name in Katakana in the blade—see?" I showed off the weapon with a light smile.

John sighed and shook his head. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

I slipped it into my boot and pulled my pant leg over the hilt before we brought our things back to the car.

When we returned to Baker Street, John opened the door to get out, but hesitated.

"Johnny, my ass is getting numb, please get out," I told him.

"Just wait," John said. He fixed his eyes on Anthea. "Listen, your boss... any chance you could not tell him where we went?"

"Sure," Anthea shrugged.

"You've already texted him, haven't you?" John sighed.

Anthea shot him a smile. "Yeah."

John nodded in defeat, started to get out, but then once again stopped.

" _John._ " I pushed at him.

"Can you just—okay?" John snapped at me. Looking to Anthea, he asked, "Hey, um... do you ever get any free time?"

I leaned back in my chair and loosed an irritated exhale from my nostrils. I didn't like being stuck with strangers and my brother knew it, yet here he was trying to spark something with someone who helped kidnap us.

"Oh, yeah, lots," Anthea said, half laughing at my turmoil.

John waited expectantly, but Anthea had turned back to her mobile.

When she realized neither of us were moving, she looked up and pointedly stated, "Bye!" 

"Okay," John chimed and finally got out.

I gave a sigh of relief as I got to my feet and stretched.

"I don't think you understand when it's proper to flirt," I said.

John shot me a glare. "You're one to talk. Have you ever even had a boyfriend?"

"No one has yet to peek my interest," I replied with a shrug.

John shook his head and went to the door as the car pulled away.

Sherlock was upstairs in the living room. He laid stretched out on the couch with his head angled toward the window. His shirt sleeves were pushed up above his elbows and his eyes were closed. I could not help but admire how his long, dark lashes looked like small fallen bird wings on his cheeks. The detective was pressing the palm of his right hand up against the underside of his left arm.

I cleared my throat pointedly and Sherlock's eyes snapped open to gaze at the ceiling for a long moment. It wasn't the stare of someone who'd just woken up or someone in a daze—his eyes were bright and focused. The detective then let out a long breath from his lips and his entire body seemed to relax. John came through the door at that point; he'd been slow on the stairs again.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock replied calmly. "Helps me think." He lifted his arm and pulled away his right hand to show three patches on his tricep.

"I'm not sure that's healthy," I said with raised eyebrows.

"Healthier than other methods that could prove more beneficial," Sherlock said. He clenched and unclenched his left wrist. "Not to mention, it's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for not breathing," John said.

"Oh breathing," Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing's boring."

"Is that three patches?" John asked.

"It's a three-patch problem," Sherlock retorted. He pressed his hands together under his chin as if in prayer and closed his eyes.

John glanced around the room, clearly looking for something. I shrugged at him when he raised his brows at me. He was searching for why we'd been summoned and I still had no idea.

"Well?" John then prompted Sherlock.

The detective didn't respond. He kept his hands together, his breath coming in even and strong.

"You asked us to come," John pressed. "I'm assuming it's important."

Sherlock took another moment of silence. Then, his eyes slowly opened, their pale green color glistening in the light of the lamp nearby. "Oh yeah," he murmured. "Of course. Can I borrow either of your phones?"

"Our phones?" I repeated flatly.

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized; it's on the website." Sherlock's green eyes glanced toward us expectantly.

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone," John said, clearly exasperated.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear." Sherlock's tone was steady and matter-of-fact. He was completely unfazed by either of our disbelieving expressions.

"We were on the other side of London," John said, his tone becoming strained.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock shrugged.

John breathed out a long sigh and shook his head. I dug into my pocket for my mobile and tossed it to him, not bothering to call out a warning.

Sherlock caught it expertly and gave me a brief smile and nod. "Thank you, Max."

"Why did you text both of us?" John asked as Sherlock slid my phone open and began to type away.

"Wasn't sure which of you would be closer," Sherlock admitted. "Turns out, you were together."

"Is this about the case?" I probed.

"Her case," Sherlock replied.

" _Her_ case?" John echoed.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously," Sherlock said. "The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"I remember you mentioning a mistake back at the crime scene," I said. "You said 'pink.'"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," Sherlock murmured to himself as he paused the typing on my mobile. More loudly, he said. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text." He slid my mobile shut and tossed it back to me.

I caught it, blinking. "I thought you were doing that just now." I said.

"No, no," Sherlock said. "I just wanted to see your mobile. You can tell a lot about people from their phones." Sherlock waved me off. I wasn't sure I was keen about Sherlock prying deeper into my personal life.

"You brought us all the way here to send a text?" John asked as I headed toward the desk while shaking my head.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk," Sherlock said.

I paused for a moment. I was baffled that Sherlock had the audacity to summon people he's known for a day for such a simple task and with such urgency. I could tell that Sherlock shared the same disconnect from other people I did, the man in the warehouse pointed that out too. It had taken me a long time to figure out what sort of things bothered people and what was considered polite. John had helped, of course. He understood me better than anyone, even our parents.

However, Sherlock struck me as someone far too intelligent and aware of people and their behavior to not know what would be rude or inappropriate. He quite simply didn't _care._ It was either that, or he was able to read other people well enough to tell how much he could get away with.

Part of me was fascinated. Perhaps the reason I had grown somewhat of a conscious about how I affected other people's feelings because I had grown up with John. My brother had always cared about me and took care of me, so in turn, he became one of the few people I cared about- perhaps the _only_ person I _truly_ cared about. I wanted John to be content, so I kept up appearances for him.

Sherlock might not have had such a supportive sibling. In fact, he might have had a sibling just as adverse to common curtesy as he was.

"We just met someone you know," I said abruptly as I turned back toward the detective.

"Someone I know?" Sherlock lifted his head slightly off the cushion it was resting on.

"A friend of yours," John clarified.

"A _friend?_ " Sherlock repeated, one brow rising as he sat up even more.

"An enemy," I corrected my brother.

"Oh." Sherlock seemed to instantly calm and laid back on the sofa. "Which one?"

John and I looked at one another disbelievingly for a moment, but then I shrugged.

"Shouldn't be surprised, really," I said to John.

He sighed and turned back to Sherlock. "Your _arch-_ enemy, according to him," he said. "Do people _have_ arch-enemies?"

Sherlocks eyes snapped open and he darted them between the two of us. Quietly, he asked, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yeah," I said with a small nod.

"Did you take it?" Sherlock said.

"No," John replied, appearing almost insulted.

"Pity." Sherlock once again sank back into the couch. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Why didn't I think of that?" I muttered under my breath.

"Who is he?" John demanded.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now," Sherlock mumbled, clearly annoyed. "On my desk, Max. The number."

"Hold on," John said. "Dangerous? He practically kidnapped Maddie and me because of you. Do I need to be concerned he might hurt her?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You both came tearing back here after I said there could be danger _and_ after being 'practically' kidnapped by him and him offering you money to spy on me." He shot us a small glance. "You can't seriously be hung up about risks now."

"He wouldn't physically hurt us, Johnny," I assured my brother as I turned back toward the desk.

"How do you know?" John said incredulously.

I ignored him as I picked up the paper from Sherlock's desk. "Jennifer Wilson—that's the woman from the crime scene, the fourth suicide." I turned back toward Sherlock. "Why—?"

"It's not important," Sherlock told me. "Just enter the number."

I loosed a tight exhale then did as he asked.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock said as I typed in the number.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Have you _done_ it?" Sherlock's voice was quick and forceful.

"Patient one, aren't we?" I grumbled.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'" Sherlock waited for me to put in those sentences before continuing. "'Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?" John asked, clearly confused.

"What?" Sherlock stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "No, no."

"He's not typing this message as himself, John," I told my brother.

"What do you mean?" John demanded.

Sherlock got to his feet in one, smooth motion. He then came to my side, putting his foot on the coffee table to walk over it rather than around. It was as if he had no desire to waste time on anything he found trivial. He looked down at my message and nodded his approval. "Send it, quickly."

"Right," I said and hit the button.

"I don't get it," John pressed, looking between the two of us.

"Sherlock thinks that the victim left her mobile with the killer, or he took it," I explained. "He's sending the text under the premise that he is Jennifer to see if someone responds—if the killer responds."

"Oh." John's confused face relaxed a touch.

Sherlock left us and headed into the kitchen. He ducked out of view for a moment beyond the wall, and then reappeared with a small pink suitcase. With it securely in hand, he walked back into the living room and set it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace.

"Did it send?" Sherlock asked.

"As far as I can tell," I said. "Sherlock... that case..."

John turned and noticed it for the first time. "That's... that's Jennifer Wilson's case," he breathed.

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock responded curtly as he plopped down in one of the chairs.

John and I kept on staring, neither of us sure what to do or say. I blinked a few times as I tried to process a few things.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her," Sherlock added.

"We never said you did," John said swiftly.

"Why not?" Sherlock looked up at us. "Given the text I just had Max send and the fact that I have her case; it's perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people _typically_ assume that you're the killer?" I queried.

"Now and then, yes," Sherlock admitted with a small smirk. He placed his palms on the arms of the chair and lifted his legs up to plant his feet beneath him. He then leaned back and clasped his hands beneath his chin.

"Okay..." John said with a small shake of his head. He limped around and collapsed into the other chair. "How did you get this?" He gestured to the case with his cane.

I walked over next, sliding my mobile shut as I went. The pink case was the exact shade as the woman's coat and shoes had been, if I wasn't mistaken (and when it came to colors, I usually wasn't). I squatted down beside it and frowned. There were a number of clothing items and makeup, a few accessories for hair; it was just like Sherlock thought. It made sense how some people would assume he was the killer. I remembered Donovan warning us that at one point we would come across a crime scene with a body Sherlock put there.

Of course, Donovan was also the type of woman to fool around with a married man. I didn't think that her opinion on Sherlock was going to amount to much, at least, not in my book.

"By looking," Sherlock told my brother.

"Where?" John said.

I glanced over at Sherlock as he gazed down at the pink case in question. His green eyes were fixated on it as if he were trying to pry answers from its seams.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," the detective explained. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention- particularly a man, which is statistically more likely- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink..." I breathed, looking back at the case with new understanding.

"You got _all_ that because you realized the case would be pink?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Why didn't _I_ think of that?" John muttered to himself.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock said simply.

John's head snapped up to gape at the detective.

Sherlock waved him off. "No, no, no, don't get all worked up. Practically everyone is. You're sister too, though to a slightly lesser degree."

Seems I was right about him not worried about hurting people's feelings. I bit my tongue as my core began to itch with several different sensations. Part of me envied Sherlock's lack of empathy—he was able to say exactly what he thought whenever he liked without any shame or remorse; I would adore that kind of freedom. However, at the same time, I pitied the detective. While worrying about keeping myself in line all the time, it wasn't all bad. I had John, and I did feel a little bit of something when I helped someone else or made them happy.

"Now look, do you see what's missing?" Sherlock's attention went back to the case and his words pulled me back to reality.

"From the case?" John said. "How could we?"

"Her phone?" I guessed.

Sherlock pointed at me. "See? Lesser degree idiot."

"How did you know that?" John demanded of me. Then he shook his head. "Right, the text message."

"Couldn't she have possibly left it at home?" I asked Sherlock.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it," Sherlock retorted. "She _never_ leaves her phone at home." He held out his hand to me suddenly.

I didn't understand what he wanted. Was he asking for my hand? I slowly began to reach forward to grab it, but Sherlock pulled back before we could touch.

"The paper with her number," the detective said, his voice tight.

I passed it to him and he slipped it back into the luggage label. That must have been where he found it.

"Hang on, hang on," John said suddenly. "So you think the phone is with the murderer- and you had my sister _text_ him on her mobile?! For one: that's terribly risky, and two: what good will that do?"

It was like my phone was waiting for him to question our new flatmate. It began to buzz away on the floor next to my foot. I swiped it up and frowned at the caller ID before showing it off to Sherlock and John.

 _(WITHHELD)_

 _Calling..._

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock said breathlessly, his eyes sparkling with delight. "If somebody had just _found_ that phone, the'd ignore a text like that... but the murderer..." He paused for a brief moment, and the frantic buzz of my phone cut out as the call went to my voicemail. "...would panic."

Sherlock reached down to flip the lid of the case closed and stood up to stride across the room. I practically had to scramble out of his way to not get toppled over from my crouched position on the floor. He snatched his jacket and began to pull it on. John was too busy staring down at my mobile.

"What if my sister's name was on her voicemail?" John demanded, looking over at the detective. "He'd instantly know who she was! He could look her up and try to find her!"

"I knew it wouldn't be," Sherlock responded calmly. "Girl like Max? One who rushes off on any whim that takes her and keeps her hair short? No makeup and no done-up nails? Max doesn't have the patience to set up a voicemail. All he's going to hear is that lovely robotic voice reading off her number to him."

He was right, of course. I hopped to my feet and shrugged at my brother. "Even if he did have my name, all we'd have to do was flaunt me around some and catch him when he tries to swoop in."

"You're suggesting you would be okay with being used as bait?" John's brows were furrowed and pulled low, his lower lip curling in a touch. He was angry with me, that was easy to see.

"One small risk is worth catching a murderer, don't you agree?" I said. "Besides, it would probably be fun."

"I'm sorry, I suppose I'm just still getting used to this side of you," John muttered.

"Please, you always knew it was there," Sherlock scoffed. "You just didn't want to see it; to see how you both share the same guilty pleasure."

John shook his head and elected to change the subject. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead," Sherlock said. "There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So what are you talking to _us?_ " John demanded.

Sherlock reached behind the door and grabbed his overcoat. He looked back toward us and frowned a bit- not at _us,_ but at the mantle over the fireplace. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So we're filling in for your skull?" John was clearly bewildered and a bit insulted.

"Relax, you're both doing fine," Sherlock assured us as he pulled on his coat.

There was a brief pause in which my brother and I merely stared at him. I couldn't help but look back at the mantle and wonder how in the world Mrs. Hudson disposed of a human skull.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well what?" John asked.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly," Sherlock shrugged.

"You want us to come?" I whirled and my whole body began to tingle with excitement.

Sherlock grinned a bit. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so..."

John smiled tightly.

"Problem?" Sherlock tilted his head.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan," John said.

"What about her?" Sherlock sighed as he took his gaze elsewhere, clearly annoyed.

"She said... you get off on this. You enjoy it," John told him.

Sherlock's eyes darted between the two of us. I couldn't help but raise my brows curiously.

"And I said 'dangerous' and here you both are," the detective replied and turned to whisk out the door.

He'd said the same thing earlier. John and I looked at one another.

"This is stupid," my brother said.

"Stupid fun," I corrected him. My smile returned, and this time I knew it had a wicked edge to it.

John stared at me for a moment longer before angrily pushing on his cane to get to his feet. "Damn it!"


	7. A Study in Pink, Part 6

_**A/N: Sorry the update is a day late; I was ill yesterday and totally spaced it. Here it is, hope you all enjoy!**_

The night air was crisp and once again biting. I could not believe I wasn't asleep yet, but my body and mind were both wide awake. It took effort to slow down for my brother to keep up as we hastened after Sherlock. I could see his head of curly hair just ahead. He had incredibly long legs, so I guessed he knew full well we were trailing after him and was keeping his pace slower than normal to allow us to catch up.

What a polite sociopath.

When we finally reached him, John curtly asked, "Where are we going?"

Sherlock, not surprised at all to see us, replied, "Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John scoffed.

"No, I think he's _brilliant_ enough," Sherlock said. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"For the renown?" I guessed.

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. "Appreciation, applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Watsons: it needs an audience."

"Yeah," John said while pointedly looking at him.

I grinned a little with amusement. "They certainly do," I murmured, taking a glance at the detective myself.

Clearly oblivious to our little jab, Sherlock spun and gestured to the street around us as we continued on. "This is his hunting ground," he explained, "right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

Sherlock gripped his head with his fingertips as if to pull the solution from the deepest reaches of his mind.

"Think!" he breathed. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I felt my own brow wrinkle as I tried to come up with an answer. The only ones I trusted without knowing them were dogs, and that probably wasn't entirely wise.

"Dunno," John admitted. "Who?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

The detective led us into a small restaurant that faced toward an T-shaped intersection. It allowed a view of Northumberland Street straight on. The moment we entered the door, a waiter smiled at us and gestured to a table directly to our left. It had a small reserves tag on it. The delectable scent of cooking food wrapped around me with the soothing warmth of the diner. It was a quant place, with booths toward the middle and along the windows lining the front. It seemed they served all kinds of dishes here, given the various smells and from what I could see of the other patrons' plates.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said as he took off his coat and went over to the table. He sat on the far side and turned sideways so that he could look out the window.

I shed my coat as I slid into the plush red bench across from Sherlock and John plopped down on the other side of me. The waiter came over and plucked up the reserved sign off the clean white table. The tinker of silverware against plates along with the low hum of conversation droned on in the background. As Billy left us, Sherlock nodded to a building across the road.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street," he said. "Keep your eye on it."

I leaned over to see out the window to what seemed to be a flat. I wondered if Sherlock knew who lived there or if it was empty. I had to hope for the latter. If we just invited a murderer over to someone's flat- regardless if Sherlock knew them or not- it might cause trouble.

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, it he?" John asked. "He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people," Sherlock gently reminded him.

"...Okay," John amended with a slight shrug.

I shook my head. "He might not knock, but he's sure to come around."

"Exactly, Max." Sherlock shot me a small grin.

"Sherlock!"

We turned to see that the manager had come over. He was a burly man with dark hair and full beard. He beamed as he reached over to roughly shake Sherlock's hand.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free," the man said as he released him. He glanced from me to John. "On the house, for you and your company- is this leading up to a double date?" He winked slyly at me.

"Uh—" I began.

"Do you know what you want to eat?" Sherlock interjected, looking from me to John.

"It's not a date," John insisted.

"Why does this keep happening?" I wondered aloud.

"This man got me off a murder charge," the man said, seemingly oblivious to my brother and me as he gestured to Sherlock.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced half-heartedly.

Angelo offered his hand to John and my brother shook it. The man then offered his hand to me. I took it in mine, preparing to firmly grip his hand to keep it from being crushed in his, but Angelo was surprisingly gentle. He smiled warmly.

"Nice to meet you?" It came out of my mouth sounding more like a question than I intended, but no one seemed to notice.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking," Sherlock explained.

I almost snorted. Well, breaking and entering was certainly better than a murder charge.

"He cleared my name," Angelo said, still smiling ear-to-ear.

"I cleared it a _bit,_ " Sherlock corrected. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo replied. He glanced between John and me again. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo said to me. "It'll be more romantic."

"She's not his date!" John called after him.

Angelo paused a moment and looked back, aghast. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I should've known better- people typically do like to sit across from their date, right? Don't worry, we serve all kinds here! I'll be right back with that candle!"

I couldn't help but smirk a little at John which he returned with an irritated glare.

"You might as well eat," Sherlock told my brother as he put his menu down. "We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back at that moment with a tiny glass bowl holding a tea light. He set it gently on the table before giving John a thumbs up and scurrying away again.

"Thanks!" John said after him, his tone still a bit clipped.

About fifteen minutes went by. John and I ordered some food while Sherlock kept his attention on the building across the street. I plopped some chicken in my mouth and leaned back as I chewed. Decent food, to be honest. I glanced at Sherlock and gestured to my food. I figured he'd see the movement out of the corner of his eye and sure enough, he waved me off.

John drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. He'd barely touched his food and was staring at it with a tight frown. Quite suddenly, his head snapped up and he said, "People don't _have_ arch-enemies."

At first, I thought Sherlock was going to ignore him. He kept staring out the window, his green eyes darting between the various cars and pedestrians along the street. Finally, he turned to face my brother.

"I'm sorry?" The detective raised his brows.

"In real life," John clarified. "There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock murmured listlessly as he looked out the window again. "Sounds a bit dull."

"It does," I agreed with a sigh. "It _is._ "

"Stop encouraging him." John elbowed me before looking back to Sherlock. "So who did we meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their _real lives_?" Sherlock asked, still not looking back at us.

"Friends; people they know, people they like, people they don't like..." John listed them each with a deeper furrow of his brow. He then shrugged and offered, "Girlfriends, boyfriends..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying- dull." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare across the street.

"You don't have a girlfriend?" John asked.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area," Sherlock replied carelessly.

"Mm." John looked back at his plate.

I remembered the man in the warehouse and what he had said about Sherlock and romance; how he wasn't the romantic type, but he certainly knew what it was. Of course, I didn't expect Sherlock to keep a significant other, but it was clear that John had a hard time imagining anyone who didn't want that sort of thing. It was why he still didn't get why I hadn't ever dated.

A moment passed and then my brother looked back up sharply, as if just realizing something. He eyed the Sherlock carefully. For a brief second, I thought the concept of a content single person had finally dawned on him, but then he asked, "D'you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock's head snapped around, gaze piercing into each of us in turn.

"Which is fine, by the way," John added hastily.

"I _know_ it's fine," Sherlock said.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" John prompted.

"No." Sherlock's response was deadpan.

John kept smiling for a moment too long. I elbowed him and he cleared his throat. "Right, okay. You're unattached. Like me—like _us._ " He gave me a small glance. "Good." He started to awkwardly eat again.

I supposed my brother and I did hold an additional similarity when it came to fumbling with social interaction. I carved out another slice of chicken and stuffed it into my mouth as I waited for the detective's response to John's awkward comment.

"John, um..." Sherlock began, slowly placing his hands on the table. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work—" his words began to tumble out of him faster and faster: a dead giveaway of his nerves, "—and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—"

"No," John interrupted him sharply. He shook his head and cleared his throat once again- a nervous habit he seemed to be developing. "No, I'm not asking. No." He then fixated his gaze onto Sherlock, clearly trying to show that he was telling the truth. "I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine."

I was still chewing my chicken and put a hand over my mouth to try and hide the smile that was breaking across my face. One thing was for certain: chasing bad guys wasn't going to be my only source of entertainment if I lived with my brother and Sherlock.

"Good," Sherlock said after a brief moment and a nod. "Thank you. And Max, I know you're smirking."

I snorted awkwardly and nearly choked on my food. When I managed to swallow, I shrugged at Sherlock innocently. "Can you blame me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his attention back out the window. His expression was still bewildered and a touch annoyed. Suddenly, he perked up and nodded out the window.

"Look across the street. Taxi," he said, his voice growing breathless.

John and I twisted in our seats to peer out the window. Sure enough, there was a black cab parked at the side of the road. It's back end was facing us and I could make out a male passenger staring outside the side windows. It almost appeared as if he were searching for someone.

The amusement from Sherlock and John's little dating escapade died in the wake of a pounding heart.

"Could that be him?" I whispered.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out," Sherlock murmured. "Perhaps..." His eyes squinted as if in concentration. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

"That's him?" John prompted my query again.

"Don't stare," Sherlock ordered.

We both immediately stopped and looked at him instead.

" _You're_ staring," John pointed out.

"We can't _all_ stare," Sherlock countered.

The detective suddenly pulled away from the window and got to his feet to grab his scarf and coat. Without another word to us, he went straight for the door.

"Apparently we're going," I said with my brows raised.

John sighed and snagged his own jacket while slipping off his seat and pursuing Sherlock. As I followed them, I pulled on my coat and tied my scarf about my neck securely before stepping out of the restaurant. The air around me transformed from the warm, delicious-scented air of the diner to the bitter cold and exhaust-filled breeze of London. Sherlock was already marching across the street without bothering to check to see if he was clear to go.

"Sherlock!" I called when a car neared him without proper time to stop.

The detective ignored me and despite the blaring car horn or rude gesture from the driver, he hopped up and slid over the hood of the vehicle and kept on across the street at a swift pace. John followed after him, putting one hand on the hood of the car to hop over it, since there wasn't enough room between it and the car in front.

"Sorry," he said to the driver without stopping.

"Double sorry!" I added as I ran forward and gently jumped over the hood and after the two men.

I saw a cab driving off down the street, and where the one we were watching was earlier was a mere empty spot. It was our mark, and he was getting away. John and I came to a halt beside Sherlock and my brother patted the detective's sleeve with the back of his hand.

"I've got the cab number," John said.

"Good for you," was Sherlock's dry reply.

He brought his hands up on either side of his face and closed his eyes. I could see his eyes darting about behind his lids and his head twitched back and forth, as if he were watching a tennis match gone mad.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane," Sherlock said, his voice swift and purposeful, as if each phrase was a bullet out of a gun, "pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights..."

Sherlock suddenly lifted his head and his eyes locked on something to our right. I followed his gaze to see he was staring a man unlocking a nearby building. I didn't have time to figure out what the building could house before Sherlock abruptly took off running toward it. When the detective reached the door, he snatched the man by the back of his coat and shoved him out of the way before barging through the door.

"Oi!" the man bellowed after him as John and I sprinted ahead to follow suit.

"Sorry," John said to the man and raised a hand apologetically before flinging the door open again to duck inside.

"Double sorry!" I added with a sheepish grin as I pelted after my brother.

The building opened up into a stairwell that wrapped around the edge of the walls. Sherlock was already one flight of stairs above us; the sound of his pounding footsteps echoed downward like thunder. Without pausing to think, John and I raced up the stares after him, taking them two at a time. My breath started to grow heavy and my legs were starting to burn as we went up more and more stairs, but my pounding heart in my ears made me forget about it all.

At one point, I got ahead of my brother. When Sherlock finally stopped going up the stairs and instead burst through a door that led out onto a fire escape, I was relieved at the prospect of going _down_ stairs instead of up.

Then the detective began to climb.

I groaned and held the door open for John before tearing after him. Once we made it to the roof, we spotted Sherlock sprinting across it full speed; his coat flowing out behind him and his feet kicking up scores of pebbles that littered the roof's surface.

"Come on, Watsons!" he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock reached the edge of the roof, and paused, peering over it. This finally gave us time to reach his side, but the second he got to him, he was moving again. He led us to a short, metal spiral staircase and loped down the stairs with both speed and ease. My brother and I were less graceful with our descent, but at least we didn't topple and fall. Once at the bottom, he climbed onto the railing before leaping across a gap to the next building. He made the act seem effortless.

Regardless, John and I scramble onto the railing and pelt after him. A smile cracked my face as I braced myself for the leap. It was a wide gap and a six story drop- needless to say, that would hurt like a bitch. However, the prospect of the danger did nothing to stop me. If anything, it was urging me on. In one, powerful bound, I leapt from the edge and into the open air.

Sherlock had been kind enough to pause and wait for us on the other roof. He reached out and embraced me the moment I hit the surface of the building- and good thing too; my jump had been a bit overzealous and I ended up having too much momentum. If the detective hadn't been there, I'd be face-planting the roof right now. Miyako would have been so disappointed in my sloppy landing.

"Thanks!" I breathed.

Sherlock released me as quickly as he'd caught me and instead of acknowledging me, he looked across the gap to where John was hesitating. "Come _on_ John," he urged. "We're losing him!"

John backed up a few steps, then sprinted forward. He leapt the gap easily, though I still gripped him to steady his landing. With all of us safe and sound, we took off ahead. Sherlock led us to the edge of this new building where we found yet another fire escape. The three of us descended down all the way it would go and hopped the last fleet instead of attempting to drop the ladder. After we landed safely in the alleyway, we followed after Sherlock at a hard sprint.

My heart was racing, but I felt light as air as my legs pumped beneath me. The alley around us was a gray blur; all my eyes could fixate on was the back of Sherlock's head. We rounded the corner to the last section of the alleyway that led out to the street- the sight of it was a blast of color compared to the dull walls around us.

Then a black shape came into view: the cab. It was heading left, and as soon as it appeared in our line of sight, it was gone.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock shouted. However, despite his obvious frustration, he kept on going without breaking stride. The second he left the alley, the detective darted to the right.

John dashed to the left after the taxi. I paused just outside the alley, blinking in bewilderment as I tried to figure out who to follow.

"No, _this_ way!" Sherlock ordered over his shoulder.

"Sorry!" John called as he turned around.

I couldn't help but laugh a little before took off after Sherlock, my brother just behind.

We ran on for what both seemed like hours and mere seconds. Sherlock kept to the streets this time, sparing us bursting into any more buildings or leaping anymore rooftops. We cut through some more alleys; the stench of expired food and other carrion assaulting us as we dashed by dumpsters. Finally, we emerged from one last alley and Sherlock flung himself into the street, holding his arms at the ready.

I gasped as there was the screeching of tires and the very cab we'd been pursuing came to a abrupt stop- but not in time to avoid crashing into Sherlock. The detective braced himself against the hood of the car and wasn't pushed even a foot. John and I went forward, both of us heaving in lost breath and staring in shock. Sherlock, clearly either uninjured or very skilled at not showing pain, dug into his coat and pulled out what appeared to be an I.D. badge of some kind. He flashed it at the driver as he ran around the right hand side of the cab.

"Police!" he barked. "Open up!"

Sherlock tugged at the passenger door open while he panted heavily. He gazed into the window at the passenger intently, and as John and I came up behind him, I saw that the man appeared to be of asian decent and was gaping back at Sherlock. He didn't appear panicked or frightened, no caught-red-handed type stare. No, he seemed nothing more than anxious and confused.

"No," Sherlock breathed, straightening up. He stared up at the overcast sky for a moment before he leaned back down to address the man. "Teeth, tan- what- Californian?" He glanced down at the floor near the passenger's feet.

The man blinked rapidly, like some confused puppy. "L.A., Santa Monica," he replied warily in an American accent. "Just arrived."

Sherlock slowly straightened again, his lips pursed into a grimace.

"How can you _possibly_ know that?" John demanded the detective.

"The luggage." Sherlock looked pointedly at the floor of the cab where, sure enough, the luggage label proclaimed LAX to LHR. Los Angeles International Airport of London Heathrow Airport.

"Oh, well, at least that was simple enough," I mumbled.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right- going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

I took a moment to glance at the cabbie. He was an older man with white hair poking out from beneath his cap. A bit heavyset and shorter than average- of course not like my brother. His careful blue eyes were watching us in his rearview mirror. So far, he hadn't said a word. I felt myself wandering up toward his door, intent on apologizing and keeping Sherlock's cover.

"Sorry—are you guys the police?" the passenger asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock assured. I glanced back to see him flash the I.D. again. It was indeed a police badge. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," the passenger replied weakly, but he still smiled.

I reached the door by the cabbie and offered him a smile. He met my gaze, but kept his window up. I waved, both as a greeting and an apology. He smiled tightly and waved back, as if to say, _"No trouble, you're just getting in the way of me doing my job, is all."_

"Welcome to London," Sherlock said to the passenger with a smile of his own, then turned and began walking briskly away.

"Er..." John was clearly at a loss. He blinked a few times, then stepped closer to the door and said, "Any problems, just let us know."

I waved once more at the cabbie, who waved back again, this time with a gentler smile, and I leaned over to say, "Enjoy your stay!" awkwardly at the passenger before politely closing his door.

With that, my bother and I followed after Sherlock, who had paused a few meters away.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John said.

"Basically," Sherlock agreed.

"Not the murderer," I murmured.

" _Not_ the murderer, no," Sherlock sighed.

"Wrong country, good alibi," John noted.

"As they go." Sherlock stared at the back of the cab as it began to drive again. He gently tossed his I.D. from one hand to the other.

"Hey, where- where did you get this?" John asked. "Here." He reached for the badge and Sherlock wordlessly relinquished it.

I peered over my brother's shoulder at the I.D.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" I read and my eyes snapped up to Sherlock's as an amused and astonished smile formed on my lips.

"Yeah," Sherlock admitted freely. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

John nodded, then lifted his head back and started to giggle. His laughter brought mine back.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, though he too was starting to smile.

"Nothing, just: _Welcome to London,_ " John echoed Sherlock's words from before with a big grin.

Sherlock chuckled and glanced back toward the cab down the road. Looking over my shoulder, I saw an _actual_ police officer had gone to investigate why the cab stopped so abruptly. The passenger was out of his seat and pointed toward us.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked us.

"Ready when you are," John answered while I gave the detective a wide grin.

With that, the three of us turned and began to jog briskly down the road.


	8. A Study in Pink, Part 7

_Maxine_

We arrived back at 221B Baker Street out of breath once again. In the hall, we hung our coats; John and mine on the proper hooks on the wall and Sherlock draping his over the stair banister. John leaned against the wall while I shrank to a crouch to rest my legs. They were going to be screaming at me tomorrow. Seems if I was going to get used to this, I would have to start doing more cardio.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John rasped.

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock said.

John began to giggle again, his high-pitched giggle he got when something _really_ got him. Sherlock and I couldn't help but start to laugh too- it was always infectious.

"That wasn't just me," John pointed out when he recovered.

Sherlock chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Is that—is this a normal day for you?" I asked Sherlock from my spot on the floor. I was hugging my knees to my chest and resting my chin on top of them.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "I wouldn't say a normal _day,_ it's not like I go chasing cabs for exercise."

I laughed. "Well, obviously. I'm saying the case—running after murderers... accidentally coming across the wrong guy?"

"Mistakes happen on occasion," Sherlock admitted.

"But the chasing murderers is normal?" I tilted my head.

"Murderers, thieves, any criminal that's clever enough to not only stump the police, but to make me think," Sherlock replied.

I smiled and buried my head in my knees, letting my curly hair spill over my shoulders and around them. "This is _insane!_ " I said to my stomach.

"Maddie, are you okay?" John asked.

"Of course, she's okay—she's better than okay," Sherlock said.

I lifted my head to see he was smiling at me.

"She's finally not bored," he said.

I grinned and hopped to my feet. "So what's next?"

John examined me warily for a moment before looking to Sherlock. "Yeah, why didn't we go back to the restaurant?"

Sherlock's face grew serious as he waved John off. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John queried.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, passing the time..." His eyes locked onto John's. "And proving a point."

"What point?" John blinked.

"You." Sherlock smirked and called toward the door to Mrs. Hudson's ground flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson and his sister _will_ take the rooms upstairs!"

"Says who?" John demanded.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock replied coolly.

Just then, there was a knock. I grinned wickedly at my brother as he past me a questioning glance.

"You mean you _really_ haven't noticed?" I asked him.

Rather than answering, John headed for the door. Sherlock leaned on the wall and loosed a breath through his lips. I couldn't help but wonder if making that mistake with the cab was weighing on the detective. He seemed to get defensive when I asked if it happened often. Clearly, he wasn't used to it. I returned my attention to John as he opened the door.

Angelo, the waiter from the restaurant, was on the threshold, and he held out John's walking cane.

"Sherlock texted me," he explained. "He said you forgot this." He smiled.

"Ah." Clearly surprised, John took the cane and looked back at us.

We both grinned.

"Er, thank you," John said to Angelo. "Thank you."

Anglo beamed and nodded. He spotted me and waved. I waved back with an awkward smile of my own, and the waiter turned to leave. John closed the door and came back into the hall, staring at the cane.

I had noticed the moment we'd started running. I might have only been with John a short time since he'd returned from war, but he could hardly keep up with my normal walking stride, let alone _run._ Sherlock had been right. Even as I glanced toward the detective, he smiled at both of us with those green eyes practically screaming, _"I told you so."_

However, our moment of warmth regarding that John had gotten past his limp was short-lived. From the stairs came Mrs. Hudson, and there was a distinct look of distraught on the woman's face.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked mournfully.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock's smile fell and he peered at our landlady curiously.

"Upstairs," Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing weakly back the way she came.

Sherlock instantly hurried up the steps. John and I exchanged a startled and confused glance before following him. Once up the stairs, the three of us entered the living room to find Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting in one of the armchairs facing us. He wasn't the only person in the flat either; there were about five other officers rifling through Sherlocks possessions.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," Lestrade said with a small shake of his head. "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock snapped.

"Yeah, pretty sure even the police need a warrant," I muttered. "Or legitimate probable cause."

"See, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock gestured to me. "Max knows more about your job than you do, and all she has to go on is fictional mystery novels."

I blinked rapidly, trying to discern how the hell he figured out what I liked to read.

"Good for her, does she also know that you can't withhold evidence?" Lestrade countered. "And I didn't _break_ into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock waved around at all the people.

Lestrade glanced around them before locking his gaze back on Sherlock. "It's a drugs bust," he said simply.

"Seriously?" John blurted with his brows shooting up. " _This_ guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

Sherlock turned and took a few steps toward my brother, biting his lip nervously "John..." he breathed.

John was still looking at Lestrade. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational," he declared boldly.

I saw the rising discomfort in Sherlock's eyes and posture. One thing about being an artist, I always carefully observed body language so that I could translate it into my work. The detective's shoulders were tensing and he brows lowered while his eyes refused to blink.

"Johnny." I went to my brother's side and gripped his shoulder. "Read the room."

It was what he usually had to tell me when I was being insensitive or rude with my comments. I didn't have many occasions to use it on him, but it certainly got his attention when I did.

"Huh?" John looked at me, clearly confused as he blinked blankly.

"John, you probably want to shut up _now,_ " Sherlock murmured tightly.

"Yeah, but come on." John looked between me and Sherlock. He paused when he saw the grim expression on the detective. He took a step back and my hand fell off his shoulder. "No," he said disbelievingly.

"What?" Sherlock retorted.

" _You?_ " John breathed.

Sherlock's face pinched in anger. "Shut up!" He whirled to face Lestrade once more. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, _Anderson's_ my sniffer dog," Lestrade corrected him and nodded toward the kitchen.

"What—An—" Sherlock turned to see the kitchen doors slide open to reveal not only Anderson, but several other officers rooting through the cabinets and fridge. Anderson smirked victoriously at Sherlock and waved.

"Anderson," Sherlock snarled, "what are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I _volunteered_ ," Anderson replied venomously.

Sherlock turned his back on him and faced us again. He was biting his lip so hard I was worried it was going to start bleeding.

"They _all_ did," Lestrade told him. "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"Really?" I blurted as I stared at all of them. "This guy helps you put _killers_ behind bars and you all happily go out of your way to screw him over?"

"You've known Sherlock for a day," Anderson snarled at me. "We've known him for nearly five years."

"Are these _human_ eyes?" Donovan walked into view holding a jar with what very much appeared to be human eyes inside.

"Put those back!" Sherlock ordered, pointing angrily.

"They were in the microwave!" Donovan exclaimed.

"It's an experiment," Sherlock replied, voice clipped with irritation.

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade called. He set his gaze on me. "Listen—it's Maxine, right?"

I nodded while still keeping my arms crossed.

"All of this could have been avoided if Sherlock just told us about the case," Lestrade said as he got to his feet. "We all know he's brilliant; but there is a procedure to things."

"Procedure, please!" Sherlock began to pace.

"You could just help us properly and I'll tell them to stand down," Lestrade said.

"This is childish!" Sherlock spat.

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock; this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock came to a halt and locked the Detective Inspector in a infuriated glare. "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade pointed out.

" _I am clean!_ " Sherlock barked.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade tilted his head. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock angrily unbuttoned his cuff and pushed the sleeve up to reveal his nicotine patch.

"Neither do I." Lestrade strode up to Sherlock and pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket to reveal a similar patch on his arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away again as he yanked his sleeve back down.

"So let's work together," Lestrade pleaded as he tugged his own sleeve down. "We've found Rachel."

Sherlock twisted back around to face him again. "Who is she?" he demanded.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade answered.

"Her daughter?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson called. "We found the case." He pointed to where the pink case sat in the corner of the living room. "According to _someone,_ the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock's head snapped around to look at him. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He refocused on Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade said.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, causing John and I to exchange a startled look. "How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be." His expression was lit with thrill; a kid on Christmas Eve eagerly waiting for Saint Nick to break and enter.

"Well, I doubt it," Lestrade admitted, "since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn child, fourteen years ago."

John grimaced and turned away. However, Sherlock carried an expression that mirrored all that I was feeling—confusion.

"Why?" I wondered aloud before I realized it.

"Hm?" Lestrade looked to me.

"Why would she scratch that in the floor—of all things—while she was dying?" I asked.

"My thoughts exactly, Max," Sherlock murmured. "It can't be right. Why would she do that? _Why?_ "

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson scoffed. "Yup—sociopath; I'm seeing it now. And you might not be the only one here." Anderson glanced at me.

Sherlock whirled to face him. "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have _hurt_."

The detective began to pace again. I clasped my hands against the back of my neck. I had poor circulation, so my hands were almost always cold, but I didn't mind. In fact, it was nice to put something icy against my skin to help focus my thoughts. Most would jump to sentiment being the cause of Jennifer to carve her stillborn daughter's name; but Sherlock was right. It would have hurt like hell. Why not just speak her daughter's name?

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it," John said. "Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?"

The room fell silent as all the officers stopped what they were doing and stared at the detective. It took him a moment to realize and he hesitated as he lifted his head and looked around. He then glanced at my brother and me.

"Not good?" he guessed.

" _Bit_ not good, yeah," John answered while I shook my head with a grimace. Even I knew death of loved ones was never a subject to tread on without care.

Sherlock paused for a moment longer, staring at his shoes as if weighing something. He then stepped toward us, looking between John and me intently. "Yeah, but if you were dying... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live,'" John answered without hesitation.

"Use your imagination," Sherlock insisted.

"I don't have to," John reminded him curtly.

Sherlock's face fell as he realized the weight of John's words. My brother had nearly died in Afghanistan, so naturally he knew what it was like to be on the brink.

"Well..." I spoke up to try and break the tension. "You said she had a string of lovers."

Sherlock nodded at me.

"So, she's clever, right?" I said. "Really clever if she's still married and never got caught. It can't be sentiment. It doesn't make sense. She has to be trying to tell us something."

Sherlock's brows raised and he nodded again, this time slower as if he were tasting my words.

"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, I think so too. But what _is_ her message?"

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson's voice chimed from behind us and I turned to see her walking in. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock." She glanced around the flat and her expression was consumed with shock and dismay. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John explained.

Mrs. Hudson's face fell. "But they're just for my hip," she insisted. "They're herbal soothers."

"It's not for you, Mrs. Hudson," I assured her.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" Sherlock barked suddenly. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

I snorted in amusement as Anderson grunted indignantly. "What?" he snapped. "My _face_ is?!"

"Everybody, quiet and still," Lestrade ordered. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson argued.

"Your back, now! Please!" Lestrade shouted.

Anderson sighed heavily and turned around.

"Come on, think! Quick!" Sherlock had his fingers pressed to his temples and his green eyes were darting around the room as if searching for inspiration.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson probed.

Sherlock whirled, his eyes wide and the cords springing out in his neck. "MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed.

The elderly woman flinched and turned away to leave out the door, but not before I saw the crushed expression she carried.

"I'll deal with the taxi," I murmured with a small shake of my head. "You lot figure out Rachel."

"Make sure to tell him he got it wrong and I didn't order one," Sherlock snapped after me as I followed after Mrs. Hudson.

I found our new landlady at the bottom of the steps. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were dry. When she heard me coming down the stairs, she turned and smiled sheepishly.

"I didn't mean to be a bother..."

"Of course not," I assured her. I wasn't sure what else to say. I shuffled my feet awkwardly. Perhaps she'd want a hug? I really wasn't good at this sort of thing.

"This cabbie's just being very insistent," Mrs. Hudson told me, saving my from saying any more. "Triple checked that he had the right name and address."

"I'll tell him he's got it wrong," I said. "I can usually convince people to... leave."

It was true. Whether I intended to or not, I was skilled at making people walk out of rooms, buildings, and often times my life as a whole.

"Thank you, Maxine, you're such a darling," Mrs. Hudson gestured to the door. "He's parked out front."

As Mrs. Hudson headed back toward her own flat, I went to the main door and exited out onto the street. Overcast shrouded the night sky, though I doubted that I'd be able to see any stars without it, being in the heart of London. I regretted not grabbing my coat as the chill air nipped at my exposed skin. I still had my scarf around my neck, so I gripped it with my hands in an effort to warm my fingers.

"Mr. Holmes didn't order a cab," I began as I approached the black taxi parked before our flat. However, when I spotted who it was leaning against the car, I froze in place.

It was the cabbie from before—the one that was driving the taxi we were chasing not but a half hour ago. My heart felt like it was going to buckle and sink to the bottom of my stomach. Of course— _of course._ It hadn't been the passenger of the taxi that we should have been looking at.

"Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?" I murmured Sherlock's words under my breath. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

The cabbie smiled at me. "So we meet again," he said. "Taxi's for Sherlock 'olmes."

"I told you, he didn't order one," I said. I was so aware of everything in that moment: the traffic lights down the road switching from a brilliant green to a startling crimson. The scent of moisture beginning to tinge the air, promising the possibility of rain tomorrow. The distant rumble of traffic as it crawled through the city of London. I could see the small liver spots on the man's face—the way his snowy hair carried split ends and appeared brittle.

Were these going to be the last images of my life? I knew, deep in my very _bones,_ that this man was the killer Sherlock had been hunting. I was standing face to face with a murderer. Funny, I hadn't hardly even blinked seeing Jennifer Wilson's cold, dead body, nor did I panic when that mysterious man kidnapped my brother and me. But this... this was different. John wasn't at my side—no one was. It was just me and a killer.

 _Not like your adventure novels,_ John had warned me.

"Doesn't mean 'ee don't need one," the man pointed out.

I shook my head slowly. "Why didn't we see it?" I muttered to myself. "Why didn't _I_ see it?"

The man perked a brow. "Well, you see, no one ever thinks about the cabbie," he said softly. "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Oh, good, just confess it, that helps." I pushed a hand to my forehead as I tried to think. I could scream—bring all the cops down here to take him down—but just as the thought crossed my mind, the cabbie reached back and casually pulled something to his hip.

The gleam of the street lamps reflected off of what I took to be the barrel of a gun.

"This is awkward," the cabbie admitted. "I'm here for Mr. 'olmes, y'see. The sweet old lady, she didn't put anything together, she didn't even ask questions. But you... you figured it out the second you saw me."

My heart was everywhere. It's beat pulsated the world. The feeling fled my legs, but miraculously I stayed standing. I blinked a few times as I tried to collect my voice. "I can't let you do that," I whispered. "If you're so keen on doing this to someone else, then I'm already in too deep anyway."

The man looked me over thoughtfully. "'oo are you to him? A friend? Somethin' more?"

"To be honest, I only met him on Wednesday," I said as I ran my fingers together like John did when he was trying to think of what to do next. "But that's all I needed to see to know that... that the world needs him to live more than it needs me."

The cabbie chuckled. "What are you trying to do, exactly? Play the 'ero?"

"The longer we stand here talking, the more likely someone is going to come down looking for me and see you here with a gun," I pointed out. "You can berate me for my choices on... on the drive." I swallowed—no, it was a full on _gulp._ Like I was in some shitty sitcom and just found out someone caught on to some stupid lie I told ten episodes ago.

"All righ'," the man said as he slowly replaced his gun. "Get in back."

He walked around the front of the hood to get behind the wheel. I took one last glance back toward the flat. I had my phone on me—I suppose a farewell text would have to do for John, as long as I didn't get caught. The cabbie was already closing his door, he didn't even check to see if I was coming or threaten me with the gun again. He _knew_ I would come.

Too bad for him I had a dagger in my boot and was told I had a knack for wielding it; thought I wasn't exactly keen on going up against a gun.

With a tight sigh, I opened the passenger door and slid in.

* * *

 _John_

If there was one thing I was certain about, it was that this was the most insane 24 hours of my life. I sat at the desk, staring at the monitor and waiting for the map to render. Sherlock Holmes was pacing behind me as we waited for the computer to work its magic. It was brilliant, really. Rachel hadn't just been Jennifer Wilson's lost daughter—it was the password to her email, which led us to the ability to track her phone's GPS signal.

"We're going to have to move fast," Sherlock told Detective Inspector Lestrade. "This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade pointed out.

"It's a start!" Sherlock barked back.

The map now appeared and began to zoom in. I took a small glance over my shoulder to see if Maxine had come back. She'd be just as excited as I was about the prospect of finally catching this guy. However, it seemed she was still downstairs dealing with the taxi, or perhaps she was getting a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. Though, that last part seemed unlikely—Maxine didn't socialize with anyone unless she had to or it was me.

Looking back at the laptop, I saw that the street names were now appearing around the small dot that indicated the phones general location. I blinked a few times, sure I was seeing things.

"Sherlock..." I called weakly, my brow furrowing.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock said to Lestrade, appearing not to hear me at all. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock," I repeated louder, still with my eyes glued to the screen as the map finished zooming in and clarified my suspicions.

"What is it?" Sherlock was suddenly at me shoulder. "Quickly—where?"

I nodded to the screen. "It's here. It's at two two one Baker Street..."

Sherlock straightened up and I looked up to see his expression twisted with confusion. "How can it be here? _How?"_

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice? _Me? I_ didn't notice?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," I told Lestrade.

Lestrade turned to the other officers. "Guys, we're looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim."

Apparently, the Detective Inspector had selective hearing. I sighed and looked back at the screen, wondering if perhaps there was a fault in the website and it was just tracking the laptop's location. I turned to suggest this to Sherlock, but he was staring blankly at the floor, his mouth slightly agape and his green eyes wide.

"Sherlock, you okay?" I asked.

There was a small trill of a text alert and Sherlock hurriedly took out his phone. He stared at the screen for a long moment then darted to the window looking out at Baker Street. I got to my feet, concerned by his strange and abrupt actions.

"Sherlock," I pressed.

"Nothing," Sherlock pushed away from the window. "I'm going to go help Max with the cabbie. I completely forgot she was out there still arguing. I need air anyway."

With that, the detective snatched his coat and scarf before trotting down the steps. I sighed and shook my head. Could my sister and I really handle him as a flatmate? All of this was certainly exciting, but...

My phone suddenly chimed. I frowned and took it out to see a text: _Max and I are going for food. Want anything? SH_

I stared, stunned, before going to the window just in time to see Sherlock hopping in a cab.

"What?" I breathed. Why would he and Maxine just suddenly decide to go get a bite?

"What's wrong?" Lestrade prompted.

The taxi was now pulling away. "It-it's Sherlock," I said. "He just drove off in a cab. With my sister."

"Oh, he brought company this time, that's new," Donovan grumbled. I turned to see her shoot a glare at Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She whirled and stormed toward the kitchen. "We're wasting our time!"

I shook my head and decided not to reply to Sherlock's text just yet. Instead I dialed Jennifer Wilson's number and looked at Lestrade. "I'm calling the phone, it's ringing out," I said.

Lestrade sighed heavily as he looked around. "If it's ringing, it's not here," he muttered.

I lowered my mobile and went back to the computer. "I'll try the search again," I offered.

"Does it matter? Does _any_ of it?" Donovan spat. She glared at Lestrade again. "You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll _always_ let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All_ our time."

Lestrade held her gaze for a long moment before loosing a heavy sigh. "Okay, everyone. Done here."

The officers swiftly gathered their things and began filing out. None of them made any attempt to clean up the mess they made.

The only one to hesitate was Lestrade. He looked at me and shook his head.

"Why did he do that?" he asked, his voice sharp with irritation. "Why did he have to leave?"

I shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't," Lestrade admitted.

"So why do you put up with him?" I queried.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade snapped. He started to walk toward the door, but paused once more. He turned back to face me, his expression surprisingly sincere. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think if we're very, _very_ lucky, he might even be a _good_ one."

Then the Detective Inspector headed down the stairs, leaving me alone in the flat that looked like a mini tornado passed through it. I sighed and shook my head before sitting at the desk again. I looked at my mobile and opened Sherlock's text. It still was just so abrupt and odd that he would not only disappear, but disappear _with_ my sister. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. Sherlock said he was married to his work and wasn't after a relationship, but this behavior warranted a small—but stern—conversation.

I sent a reply text: _Why leave right then and with my sister? And I suppose I could go for a small club sandwich, Maddie knows what I like on it._

I leaned back and waited for a reply, but none came. In fact, fifteen whole minutes went by, and I still had nothing. I even sent a text to Maxine stating: _Why the hell did you just suddenly take off with Sherlock and where did you go? I'm starting to get worried._

Yet once again, I got no response.

I groaned and got to me feet. My hand instinctively reached for my cane when I did so and I blinked when I remembered I didn't need it anymore. I looked at my palm for a moment and smiled a bit. Sherlock might have pulled that whole thing to prove he was right, but it still helped me nonetheless. Lestrade was right, he was a great man. I decided I'd just head home, since all of Maxine's and my things were still there. I snatched up my cane and began to text Sherlock to just drop Maxine off there, but then the laptop behind me gave a chime.

Turning, I saw that the search had ran again, and now Jennifer Wilson's phone was in a completely different place. I went over and set my cane down to pick up the laptop. It moved—so that means that perhaps it had been here on Baker Street. Perhaps it had been with...

With a cabbie.

Everything clicked into place at once. My heart began to pound in my ears and I hurriedly closed the laptop before taking off down the stairs.

"Going to get food my ass!" I spat angrily as I went.


	9. A Study in Pink, Part 8

_Maxine_

"Can I ask your name?"

It was such a normal thing to say, and it honestly felt surreal even saying it considering my current situation.

I sat in the back of the cab and my eyes darted from examining the city of London flitting by, to the dashboard where there was a photo of two kids, to the rear view mirror where I could see the cabbie's spectacled eyes. Striking up a conversation with a killer probably wasn't the typical thing to do, especially for someone like me who tried to avoid talking to anyone. However, I still didn't understand; I didn't know why this man was killing people or how he did it. Perhaps I could get him to tell me—maybe as some kind of last request.

"Jeff Hope," the man replied. "And I don't believe I got yours."

"Maxine Watson," I said. As an abrupt afterthought, I added, "Most killers wouldn't want to know their victim's names; not unless they were fully psychotic."

Jeff merely chuckled. "Now, now, let's save the in-depth conversation for later. Wouldn't want anyone to miss out."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked warily.

Jeff suddenly pulled over. We weren't that far from Baker Street. I was a bit surprised and admittedly anxious about the fact that what was potentially my last car ride didn't last longer. However, the cabbie didn't make a move to get out of the taxi. Instead, he looked at me in the rear view mirror.

"You seem fairly calm, Miss Watson," he said.

I shrugged. Truth was, my heart was thrumming against my chest so hard it felt like it could crack a rib, but I still had a dagger in my boot. "I suppose I'm good in high stress situations," I said. "Though, to be honest, this is only the third one I've ever been in. The second was just a few hours ago."

Jeff laughed. "That so? Seems that meetin' Mr. 'olmes 'as set your life on a 'ole new level."

"It has," I agreed softly.

It had set it on such a high level, I realized with staggering discomfort that the last thing I wanted to do right now was die. I hadn't felt this much of... _anything_ in my life. Sherlock Holmes swept in and somehow managed to take my desaturated world and flood it with color. I pressed a hand to my chest, reveling in the pounding of my heart.

Perhaps I could outsmart the cabbie. My eyes darted around the taxi, my mind racing for ideas—solutions—anything. However, no matter what plans came to my head, they kept being stumped by one simple thing: the gun. Unless I was fast— _very_ fast—a mere bullet would be the end of me.

"What was your first high stress situation, if you don't mind my askin'?" Jeff inquired.

I fidgeted slightly in my seat and cleared my throat awkwardly. "It was a long time ago," I said evasively. "Doesn't matter now."

"Fair enough. Do you 'ave any family?" Jeff asked. His tone suggested that we were having this conversation over tea.

I swallowed a lump that started forming in my throat. The anguish that I was feeling over the prospect of dying wasn't exactly all about me—I was picturing John finding my unmoving body. I could see the horror and grief arresting his face... I could see his shoulders shaking with sobs. I didn't want to cause that kind of pain to my brother.

"Is this your game?" I said suddenly. "Get to know your victims on a personal level? Use their lives against them?"

"Ah, just be patient," Jeff replied calmly. He was looking out his side mirrors now, and the lights of an approaching car shone from behind us. "We can continue this in just a moment."

I turned in my seat to see another taxi pull up. When it stopped, someone hopped out of the back and began to walk briskly toward us, leaving the second cab to drive off.

I recognized that curly head of hair and tall lean figure instantly.

"No," I breathed. "This wasn't—you were supposed to take me over him." I shot a glare at Jeff.

"Sorry, but he's necessary," Jeff replied with a shrug.

The door on the far side of me opened and in came Sherlock Holmes. He sat down and looked me over carefully.

"Are you all right, Max?" he asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"Why are you here?" I sighed rather than answer. "I got in this cab so you didn't have to."

"Stupid, really," Sherlock told me, his normal demeanor returning. He glanced toward Jeff. "I'm here. Now let Max leave."

"Sorry, Mr. 'olmes, but she's seen my face." Jeff shrugged again. "Miss Watson 'ere was very insistent on takin' your place. Didn't give me any choice, really. Now, the only way she lives, is if you live."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, but the taxi was already pulling away from the curb and driving once again. The detective let out an annoyed exhale and buckled his seat belt. He glanced over at me again and gave a confident nod as if to say, _I've got this. Everything will be fine._

To be honest, the presence of someone else alone was doing wonders for my nerves. I let my shoulders relax a little and I stopped worrying the fabric of my scarf.

"So." Sherlock turned his attention to Jeff. "Let's start with the basics: what do you want?"

"I just want to play a little game, Mr. 'olmes," Jeff said. "You've got to be curious, I'm sure. See, I didn't kill those four people. I spoke to 'em... and they killed themselves. Don't you want to know what I said?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first. I had to admit, _I_ was curious. Was the cabbie actually capable of talking people into willfully killing themselves? Was that why he was asking about past and my family? Did he dig into people's lives and force them to agonize over the negative aspects of them so much that they committed suicide?

No, no... Jennifer Wilson didn't willfully die. She carved a message into the floor boards for us—a message I still didn't understand, but surely it was an attempt to lead us to Jeff.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, electing to ignore Jeff's question.

"Oh, I recognized you, soon as I saw you chasin' my cab," Jeff said. "Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!" Jeff smiled at him in the rear view mirror.

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock frowned.

My mind immediately went to the man that kidnapped John and me earlier. Would he really do that to Sherlock? Were the two so at odds that this man warned serial killers about the detective?

"Just someone out there who's noticed you," Jeff replied.

So not the guy from the warehouse, then. That was too bland of an answer—unless Jeff didn't know the real connection between him and Sherlock.

"Who?" Sherlock's voice was growing sharper and more insistent. "Who would notice _me?_ "

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes," Jeff said.

In the same moment, Sherlock and I spoke. While he stated: "I'm really not." I said, "He's really not."

This earned me a shocked and affronted look from the detective.

"What?" I shrugged innocently. "You just said it yourself."

Jeff chuckled. "Miss Watson says you two 'aven't known each other long, but you both certainly act like old friends."

"Who is that you're talking about?" I said, trying to bring the cabbie back to our previous topic.

"Mr. 'olmes got 'imself a fan," Jeff declared, smiling again.

"Tell me more," Sherlock prompted calmly as he leaned back in his seat.

"That's all you're gonna know," Jeff paused for a moment, as if to raise our anticipation. "... in _this_ lifetime."

"Bit too dramatic, don't you think?" I muttered.

Sherlock cast me a slightly surprised look. I shrugged back at him, wondering what he was so shocked about.

"Drama is what it's all about," Jeff said. "Isn't that why you got in my cab even when I got in the driver's seat?"

I glanced out the window. "The reason I got in your cab was so Sherlock Holmes would stay out of it," I muttered.

"Which I still find curious," Jeff replied.

We drove on in silence for a while. I recalled that this was my second time within twenty-four hours being taken by force in a vehicle. Sherlock's life certainly seemed to hold some interesting events. With one glance at the detective, I could tell that he didn't seem worried or concerned in the least. His eyes were sharp and darted around the cab, not with distress but with calculation. He'd been in situations like this before—life-threatening situations.

After about fifteen minutes, Jeff pulled in front of a set of two buildings. They were so identical that I felt they could be referred to as twins. The cabbie shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. He went to Sherlock's side, since the detective had been sitting directly behind him, and opened it like any good cabbie would.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London," Jeff said with a small smile. "You know _exactly_ where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock murmured. "Why here?"

"It's open," Jeff explained nonchalantly. "Cleaners are in. One thing about being a

cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes skeptically. "How?"

"Probably with the gun," I said.

"The gun?" Sherlock shot me a curious look before turning back in time to see Jeff raise his pistol. The detective rolled his eyes and glared at the back of the driver's seat in front of him. "Oh, dull," he breathed.

"Don't worry, it gets better than that," Jeff assured. He glanced at his gun for a moment as a long breath exhaled from his nostrils. "Now remember, you either both die or you both survive. If it were just Mr. 'olmes, I wouldn't need the gun, but Miss Watson has presented a new variable to this. So c'mon. Let's get goin'."

He gestured with the pistol for Sherlock to get out. The detective gave a tight sigh and obeyed. After he exited the cab, I slid across the seat and stood at his side. Jeff kept his gun close to his hip as he led us into the building. Inside, Jeff took us to a large classroom with long fixed wooden benches and free-standing plastic chairs. All of this was illuminated for us after the cabbie hit the switches near the door. Jeff closed the door behind us and gestured around the room.

"Well, what d'you think?" he asked.

Sherlock and I stepped further into the room. The detective glanced back toward Jeff and gave him a small shrug.

"I don't like the smell of schools," I muttered mostly to myself.

"Well, it's up to you," Jeff said. "You're the ones who're gonna die 'ere."

Sherlock turned to face him. His posture was confident and his green gaze didn't hold a single shred of doubt or fear. "No we're not," he said simply.

"That's what they all say." Jeff gestured to one of the benches. "Shall we talk?"

Without waiting for a response, the cabbie sat down in one of the chairs. Sherlock strode over and gripped two of the chairs from the bench in front of the one Jeff sat at and flipped them around to face him so we could sit across from the cabbie. I nodded my appreciation and sat down next to the detective.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" Sherlock queried. "Took Max away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you. Not to mention John—John who will probably put two and two together soon enough when he realizes a cabbie is who took his little sister. I doubt he'll be fun to deal with."

"You call that a risk?" Jeff scoffed. "Nah." He reached into his cardigan's pockets and produced a small glass bottle with a metal cap and placed it on the table. The _clack_ resounded off the white walls around them. Inside the bottle was a single capsule with white and black substance inside. " _This_ is a risk," the cabbie declared.

I couldn't help but lean forward to examine the bottle. Cyanide maybe? I couldn't be certain; I wasn't familiar with these kinds of things, I only read about them in fiction novels and manga. I doubted there was a cure for anything like that. Perhaps inducing vomiting in time could help, but I wasn't a chemist. I didn't understand how quickly chemicals could effect the body.

"Ooh, I like this bit," Jeff confessed with a giddy glint in his beady eyes. "'cause you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

From his other pocket, Jeff produced an identical bottle to the one on the table and set it next to it. The pill inside appeared exactly the same; twins in every regard. I suddenly had new respect for this location. Was it on purpose or were the twin buildings a poetic coincidence? I forced myself to focus back on the bottles. Two pills, and usually it was just Jeff and his one victim. There was only one explanation.

"You weren't expecting that, were ya?" Jeff crowed as he leaned forward. "Ooh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock asked with his brows furrowing.

Jeff exhaled and leaned back in his seat. I couldn't see his gun from here, but I assumed it was on his lap. There were two of us, and we were both more physically fit than the cabbie, but all the same, a gun was a gun. One wrong move and someone's life was gone. Besides, I had to admit part of me was curious. I could see the majority of Jeff's method, but I didn't understand how he was still alive.

"Sherlock 'olmes," Jeff murmured wistfully. "Look at you! 'ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it."

"My _fan?_ " Sherlock repeated incredulously.

"You are brilliant," Jeff said. "You _are._ A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction.' Now that's _proper_ thinking. Between you and me sittin' 'ere, why can't people think?" His gaze darted down and his brow wrinkled up with anger. "Doesn't it make you mad? Why can't people just _think?_ "

 _All the time,_ I thought, but I didn't bother voicing it. Clearly, I was the third wheel here.

"Oh, _I_ see," Sherlock suddenly said. "So _you're_ a proper genius _too."_

 _Sarcasm,_ I noted. It was one of the most difficult types of humor for me to follow since I often didn't catch when someone was using it.

"Don't look it, do I?" Jeff said. "Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know."

I was beginning to get annoyed with Jeff's theatrics. I didn't appreciate him stringing us along like this; I wanted him to get to the point and present us with the problem so I could work out a solution.

"But now here we have yet a third genius among us," Sherlock said. "Does that make it awkward?" He glanced toward me.

I blinked a few times, wondering if he was using sarcasm again or paying me a compliment.

"'er?" Jeff glanced toward me.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Max might not be on my level, but she was able to realize you were the killer the moment she saw you waiting for me. She even convinced you to take her along in your cab instead of me."

"Well, one text and you still came scamperin'." Jeff smiled.

I turned my attention to Sherlock with a questioning stare. The detective exhaled through his nostrils and took out his mobile. He slid it open and showed me the screen. He had a message from Jennifer Wilson's phone number that said: _113 Anderson St. I think Miss Watson wants to see you one last time. Come alone._

"I didn't say anything like that," I stated.

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock said. "It was clearly a ransom. Come along and get a shot at saving your life."

I chewed on my tongue for a moment before shaking my head. "Well clearly you didn't understand what I did was so you _wouldn't_ come."

"I understood that perfectly the moment I saw your expression when you saw me," Sherlock replied.

"The point was that I _let_ her in my cab instead of you 'cause I knew I'd still get you in the end," Jeff interjected. I got the impression he didn't appreciate it when the spotlight moved from him.

"With a cheap ploy, yes," Sherlock drawled.

"I'm still trying to put it together, y'see," Jeff said. "Accordin' to 'er, you've only known each other for less than two days. So why was Miss Watson so willin' to give her life for yours? She clearly didn't think you'd come along after 'er."

Sherlock's eyes darted toward me and I schooled my face into one of indifference.

"Maybe I was curious," I said.

"Nah." Jeff shook his head. "Maybe a bit, but that wasn't all. I saw the look on your face when you saw the gun. This is all new to you and yet, you're still... calm."

I leaned forward on the table and kept my gaze piercing directly into the cabbie's. "Maybe I was certain I could outwit you." My mind's eye flashed to the dagger in my boot.

Jeff chuckled. "Now that is a laugh."

Sherlock wrapped his knuckles on the table suddenly. "I think we have other things to discuss," the detective said. He gestured to the bottles on the table. "Two bottles. Explain."

Jeff seemed irritated for a few seconds, but then he gestured to the bottles on the table as if he were a proud kid showing off his science fair project. "There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," he explained. "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical," Sherlock noted.

"In every way," Jeff confirmed.

"And you know which is which," Sherlock said.

"Of course _I_ know," the cabbie replied.

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game of chance if _you_ knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I?" Sherlock demanded. "I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

"I 'aven't told you the best part yet," Jeff said. "Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one—and then, together, we take out medicine."

To my astonishment, Sherlock started to grin. Jeff had finally captured the detective's attention. It was a game of life and death and the odds were 50/50. Certainly, that had its own sense of thrill, but what was the point? Guessing took no effort; there was no payoff.

"I won't cheat," Jeff assured. "It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect _that_ did you, Mr. 'olmes?"

Again with that phrase. My brow twitched. Sherlock certainly flaunted his intelligence, but I found that he did it with a sense of... style. Jeff had to be smart, he'd gotten away with four murders after all, but a part of me believed that he was too eager to show off—too eager to point out how clever he and everything he did was.

Sherlock was now concentrating on the bottles on the table. I stared too, trying to see if there was some way to tell them apart. I didn't see any differences at all—and finding minute detail was something any decent artist had to be good at.

"This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice," Sherlock murmured.

"And now I'm givin' you one," Jeff said. "Of course, if you end up with the bad bottle, I'll 'ave to take care of Miss Watson here afterwards by less theatric means."

Death by gunshot, I was guessing. At least that crime scene would be harder to clean of evidence. Maybe Lestrade and his comrades could figure that one out.

"You take your time. Get yourself together," Jeff went on, licking his lips with anticipation. "I want your best game."

"It's not a game, it's _chance,_ " Sherlock snapped irritably. Clearly he was disappointed like I was.

"I've played four times," Jeff reminded us. "I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... _this..._ is the move."

Jeff reached up and slowly slid the bottle on our left toward us. He grinned a bit, his eyes dancing with delight.

"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?" he said. "You can choose either one."

* * *

 _John_

The taxi wasn't going fast enough. There was no feeling in my legs—which I supposed was nice compared to the pain I'd been experiencing.

"I can patch you through to Officer Morgan," the female voice on his phone said.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade!" I insisted while my eyes darted between the screen of Sherlock's laptop and out at the dark streets of London. "I _need_ to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!"

The location on the map blipped again. It had stayed in the same spot for about ten minutes now. The killer had stopped moving, and was located at an educational college.

"Er, left here, please," I stammered hurriedly to my cabbie. "Left here."

The driver nodded and obeyed, but I was still pretty far off. If I didn't get there in time—if Maxine or Sherlock were...

I reached back and touched the butt of my handgun. I _would_ get there, I _would_ keep my sister safe—hell I'd keep our new odd flatmate safe—and if I somehow showed up too late, well... I was a damned good shot either way.

* * *

 _Maxine_

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?" Jeff eyed Sherlock with heightened anticipation.

The detective's face pinched in annoyance. "Play _what?_ It's a fifty-fifty chance!"

"Can't be," I said abruptly with a small shake of my head. "It makes no sense, it doesn't add up."

"I think Miss Watson is showin' 'er genius now," Jeff said. "You're not playin' the numbers, Mr. 'olmes, you're playin' _me._ Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a _triple-_ bluff?"

"Still just chance," Sherlock insisted.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance," Jeff replied coyly.

"Luck," Sherlock corrected.

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think. I know 'ow people think _I_ think. I can see it all, like a map in my 'ead." Jeff's expression was lax and his smirk was light.

Sherlock's expression was exasperated. Jeff scoffed softly at it.

"Everyone's so stupid, even you," he said.

That hit a nerve. I observed as Sherlock's gaze sharpened and his posture stiffened.

Jeff gave an amending shrug. "Or, maybe God just loves me."

"Either way, you're _wasted_ as a cabbie," Sherlock said.

"No," I said; once again, my voice was abrupt. "No, no, no, now it's really wrong."

"What d'you mean?" Sherlock asked me.

"He presents us with these two bottles and claims that he has his victims choose which pill they take while he takes the other—they take the meds at the same time. He's won this game of his four times now." My words came faster and faster as I went on. "With how much confidence he was showing, I was certain there was more to it. Perhaps riddles or clues he'd give to his victims. But now he's legitimately saying that he won all those games through _bluffing._ It isn't possible, simply isn't. Every single person thinks differently—there would be no sure-fire way to ensure that they didn't pick the good bottle. Someone this confident doesn't deal with chance or luck; they only court the absolutes. So, if we're going on the notion that this really is a game of chance—which that's seeming more and more likely every second—then something else is going on to influence his composure; to bolster that confidence of his."

There was a long silence and I ended up warily glancing from Sherlock to Jeff. Every so often, I would go off like that. John called it my "bonus track." It was nothing like the rest of the songs in my album, according to him, and it usually came after a long pause. I supposed if my brother was referring to my average behavior as songs, then he was correct: these outbursts weren't like the normal me at all. Whenever these urges came on, words would just tumble out of my mouth without restraint. There were a few times where the topic was a bit sensitive and I said some things that John told me weren't appropriate for public.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and he started to smile. He actually looked impressed.

"You see?" he said to Jeff. "A third genius. So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

Jeff's expression only faltered for a heartbeat; his brows lowered a touch and the lines around his eyes creased. Then he was back to being completely stone-faced and gestured to the bottles. "Time to play," the cabbie insisted.

* * *

 _John_

The night air nipped at the nape of my neck when I stepped out of the cab and looked up at the two buildings. Glancing back down at the laptop, I found that the GPS signal wasn't precise enough to tell me which one it was in.

 _Two completely identical buildings side by side for a school, why?_ I thought bitterly.

The taxi drove away as I twisted my head back and forth between the two structures. It was a fifty-fifty chance I chose the right one and I didn't have time to contemplate. I closed the laptop, tucked it under my arm, and moved forward.

 _Maxine_

Sherlock pressed his hands together as if in prayer in front of his mouth. It seemed like this was a pose that he was fond of when he was thinking.

"Oh, I _am_ playing," he told Jeff. "This is _my_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there."

Well, at least I noticed the picture, but I hadn't seen any sign of it being cut. Normally, my eyes could detect that sort of thing. I had been under an unusual amount of stress, so for now I let that be my excuse. Sherlock was used to using his mind critically even when there was a gun involved. I needed to have him teach me how he did that.

"The photograph's old but the frame's new," Sherlock went on. "You think of your children but you don't see them."

Jeff's eyes instantly slid away and for the first time, I saw something human in his eyes: pain.

"Estranged father," Sherlock murmured. "She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts."

It still didn't explain why Jeff would risk death; if he loved his kids, then why would he want to die and leave them.

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock said as he extended his index fingers. "Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about?"

The detective stared for a few moments longer and then those startling eyes of his widened. He'd realized something—and in the next heartbeat, so did I.

"Oh." I stood up so fast from my chair that it toppled to the ground behind me.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't wise to make sudden movements with a killer wielding a gun sitting across the table. However, to my surprise, Jeff didn't instantly go for his pistol. Sherlock blinked and looked between Jeff and me; I managed to catch him off guard.

"You're dying," I said as I turned and picked up my chair. I carefully set it back down and tried to sit as delicately as I could in a vain attempt to cover up my clumsiness. I then pointed at Jeff and repeated, "You're dying."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and nodded at me before turning his green gaze back on Jeff. "Three years ago—is that when they told you? That you're a dead man walking?"

"So are the two of you," Jeff replied coolly. "Or, woman in Miss Watson's case."

"You don't have long, though," Sherlock retorted. "Am I right?"

Jeff smiled wanly. "Aneurism." He lifted his right hand and tapped the side of his head. "Right in 'ere."

Sherlock smiled, clearly satisfied he'd guessed correctly.

"Any breath could be my last," Jeff said.

Sherlock's smile faded back into a frown; clearly a new curiosity had struck him. "And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've _outlived_ four people," Jeff corrected. "That's the most fun you can _'ave_ on an aneurism."

"No. No, there's something else," Sherlock murmured as his brow furrowed. "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children."

I blinked. How did he figure that? Who would go our murdering for their kids? However, it seemed the detective was correct yet again. Jeff sighed heavily and looked away.

"Ohh," he breathed before returning his gaze to Sherlock. "You _are_ good, ain't you?"

"But _how?_ " Sherlock demanded.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids," Jeff said. "Not a lot of money in drivin' cabs."

"Or serial killing," Sherlock pointed out.

"You'd be surprised," Jeff replied.

"Surprise me." Sherlock's gaze was sharp and hungry.

I suddenly understood why he might have an issue with narcotics. the detective had an addictive personality; it was plain in his posture and expression. In this case, he craved information—he _needed_ secrets and the answers to problems. Donovan had said that he got off on solving crimes, but she wasn't thinking of it in the right fashion. Donovan believed Sherlock wanted them like an animal seeking and mounting a mate; but I could see it was deeper than that. This wasn't something Sherlock _wanted._ It wasn't some conquest for an aroused college student.

Sherlock Holmes _needed_ this. He needed to solve and pick apart puzzles and throw himself into perilous situations like a starving wolf needed meat. It sustained him on a level that someone like Donovan couldn't comprehend. I had come across so many like her in my life—people who were lucky enough to not realize it was possible to need more sustenance than just water and food to survive.

It finally made sense why I felt such a connection to the detective: his mind was like mine. I wasn't nearly as clever or observant, but neither of us were satisfied with mere day to day living. We carried something primal and untamed; something that _needed_ things to stimulate us. In fact, there was a good chance my brother John had a bit of that need in him as well.

Jeff leaned forward on the table. His smile was small and giddy, as if even he didn't full believe the words that left his mouth. "I 'ave a sponsor."

"You have a what?" Sherlock clearly hadn't been expecting that, but his eyes only focused more.

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids," Jeff explained calmly. "The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Four people are dead, I'm not sure that qualifies as nice," I said. It sounded more like John's words than my own, but somewhere along the line I think I did adopt at least a piece of my brother's empathy.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" was Jeff's immediate response.

The two of them stared at one another for a moment. I glanced between the two as my brain churned. I couldn't help but think of the man in the warehouse again. It seemed almost too perfect that he'd try and intervene on this if he was the "fan" Jeff was talking about. However, there were several things that didn't add up. The man had seemed almost proud to declare he was an "enemy" of Sherlock Holmes, so why would he change the term to "fan?" Then there was the fact that Sherlock had seemed surprised by the word and even the concept. He knew the man in the warehouse and clearly if all this was throwing him for a loop, that man couldn't be involved; at least, that was the most probable outcome.

"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder," Jeff finally said. "There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that."

Sherlock's nose twisted with distaste. Clearly, he wasn't impressed. "What d'you mean, _more_ than a man? An organization? What?"

"There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either," Jeff said. "Now, enough chatter." He nodded to the bottles. "Time to choose."

* * *

 _John_

"Maxine? Sherlock?"

I sprinting down the corridors of the college. Nothing- there was no-one here, not staff, not his sister or their new flatmate, not any murderers. I peered into each door's window as I passed, trying to glimpse if there was anyone inside, but all of them were vacant and dark.

"Maxine!" I bellowed. "Sherlock!"

* * *

 _Maxine_

"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock queried.

Jeff sighed with disappointment and lifted his pistol. "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option."

Ah, the _gun._ I eyed it and considered the distance between me and the cabbie. I could potentially lunge across the table and attempt to disarm him but I didn't think they way Miyako taught me would work with a huge hunk of wood between me and my opponent. I was used to my feet being on the ground and being able to easily roll away; not to mention, I'd never actually disarmed someone that actually had a gun before. I hadn't been able to take any of Miyako's training into the real world at all.

Sherlock smiled calmly. "I'll have the gun, please."

I blinked. Was Sherlock insane? What was he trying to bluff or something? I contemplated how fast I could jump across the table; real world training or not, this detective was going to get himself killed if I didn't do something.

"Are you sure?" Jeff asked, raising a brow.

"Definitely." Sherlock continued to smile. "The gun."

Jeff blinked, clearly astonished by the detective's decision. However, after only a few heartbeats, he began to smile. With a smug gleam in his eyes, the cabbie moved his arm to point the gun at me right when I was bunching my muscles to lunge.

"How about now?" Jeff asked.

At first, my heart leapt up into my throat and the jolt of it shot through my whole body. Then something occurred to me: why in the hell would Sherlock willingly ask for the gun if he fully believed that Jeff would shoot him? Or if the gun was a threat at all? Yet another part of me remembered how cold and indifferent Sherlock was when it came to a lot of things. Would he willingly let me be sacrificed to prove a point? No- no, it didn't make sense. What point would he even be proving?

Sherlock eyed Jeff with a new level of intensity. Slowly, the detective leaned forward on the table, all the while keeping his eyes on the cabbie.

"The _gun,_ " he whispered.

My eyes darted between Sherlock, Jeff, and the barrel of the gun; here's to hoping I was right.

Jeff pursed his lips and squeezed the trigger. There was a click, and a little flame lit at the end of the pistol's muzzle; it was a lighter.

Sherlock smiled smugly as he leaned back in his seat. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"You knew this entire time that he didn't actually have a gun?" I murmured.

Sherlock shrugged, though nothing about his demeanor was apologetic. "I wanted to know how he did it," he said. "Now I know."

Jeff released the trigger and the flame went out. He set it down with a small shake of his head. "None of the others noticed," he muttered.

"Clearly," Sherlock replied. "Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case."

With that, the detective got to his feet and gestured for me to follow. I obeyed, standing up and politely pushing my chair in. My heart was still thrumming away in my ears and I was astonished at the level of... satisfaction that flowed through me. I had thought this was a lethal adventure, but in the end Sherlock had used his wit and intelligence to get us out of it. I felt exhilarated; _alive._

When I left Japan, I thought I was leaving behind the only thing that had made me feel like I had air in my lungs; like I could feel just like everyone else. However, Sherlock Holmes proved to me that the entire world held hidden dangers that were just waiting to be poked and prodded. Admittedly, it wasn't the best way to live- in fact it probably lowered my life expectancy by several years- but what was the point in living without... well, _living?_

Miyako would be so pissed if she knew she'd gotten me out of danger only for me to leap right back in. She'd given me my first taste and now I simply couldn't stop.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" Jeff called after us.

Sherlock paused right before he reached the door and glanced back curiously.

"Which one's the good bottle?" Jeff clarified.

"Of course," Sherlock replied confidently. "Child's play."

I frowned. How was it child's play? Didn't we figure out that Jeff Hope was a dying man desperate to get money to his children and was perfectly fine with going up against fifty-fifty odds?

"Well, which one then?" Jeff prompted.

Sherlock was at the door now and began to open it. However, at Jeff's words, he paused. I walked to his side and narrowed my eyes at the detective.

"Sherlock..." I began. I was all for the life-threatening danger, but this was something else. This was blatant stupidity if the detective was thinking what I thought he was.

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Jeff asked.

Sherlock closed the door.

"What're you doing?" I whispered.

"Come on, play the game," Jeff urged with a small chuckle.

The detective turned and began to walk back toward the table. I trotted after him.

"Are you mad?" I demanded.

Sherlock ignored me as he snatched up the bottle closest to Jeff and strode a few paces away. Jeff stared down at the remaining bottle with mild interest.

"Oh," he said calmly. "Interesting."

Neither his tone, posture, or expression gave away anything. I went to Sherlock and gripped his arm.

"That's enough, you already beat him," I said softly, but my gaze was unrelenting as it burrowed into his.

The detective stared back at me but said nothing. He tugged himself out of my grasp and returned his attention to the bottle. At the table, Jeff opened his bottle and delicately tipped the pill into his hand. He held it up and peered at it closely while Sherlock did the same with his own bottle.

"So what d'you think?" the cabbie asked. "Shall we?"

Jeff got to his feet and faced Sherlock; his expression still showed nothing but mild indifference.

" _Really,_ what do you think?" he queried with a dangerous glint hitting his eyes. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

"He's playing you," I insisted. "Sherlock, stop—we've won— _you've_ won. There's nothing left to prove!"

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" Jeff said. "I _know_ you do. A man like you..."

Sherlock began to unscrew the lid of his bottle.


	10. A Study in Pink, Part 9

**_A/N::: Apologies for the late update, some IRL stuff got in the way this weekend. Next chapter will by up this Friday on schedule. Enjoy!_**

* * *

 _John_

I was beginning to get more annoyed and panicked by the second. Nothing was yielding fruit for me in this building; not any of the classrooms, the halls, the break rooms—nothing. I sprinted so hard and fast, I was certain I'd have shinsplints in the morning. I reached yet another door into a large classroom and burst through it, grateful it wasn't locked.

The room was empty and I loosed a long exhale of irritation. However, just as I turned to leave, I noticed that there was a light on in the building across the street. I stepped to the window and peered into the illuminated room with mounting horror.

I had chosen the wrong building.

There across the way was Sherlock, Maxine, and a man I didn't know. Sherlock was slowly opening something as Maxine gripped his sleeve. She was clearly distraught—and not a lot of things could bring out emotion in my sister.

"SHERLOCK!" I shouted, though I knew it was useless. "MAXINE!"

* * *

 _Maxine_

"So clever," Jeff went on while eyeing Sherlock gleefully. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

Sherlock took out the capsule and held it between his thumb and forefinger. As he raised it to examine it closely, I went to his side again. I fully planned on knocking the pill from his hand, but the detective seemed to realize that. Sherlock instantly ducked and darted away from me when my hand swiped out.

"Max." His voice was soft, but the warning was clear. I wasn't certain what Sherlock would actually do if I tried to interfere again, but I knew it couldn't be good.

"Still the addict," Jeff murmured with a small smirk. "But this... _this_ is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all..."

Sherlock still held the pill at eye level. His fingers began to tremble with what I knew had to be excitement and anticipation.

"...to stop being bored," Jeff finished with breathless delight.

Slowly, Sherlock and Jeff began to move the pills toward their mouths. My heart was going into overdrive again, like when I'd first entered the cab with Jeff and thought of my brother. Weird—it hadn't pounded this hard since; it was as if my true panic was reserved for anyone beside myself.

"Sherlock..." I tried to take a step toward him.

Sherlock merely shot an incredibly dangerous glare in my direction. I could see it in his eyes—he _needed_ this. He needed it like air or water or food. I could more than understand that feeling, but this was too far. This could lead to his certain death.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Jeff said. He shot me a smug glance.

The dagger was still in my boot. I could get it out and threaten Jeff with it—maybe even Sherlock. Of course, it didn't make much sense to threaten someone when they were taking a fifty-fifty chance on life and death.

The two men moved their pills even closer to their mouths. Their lips could almost touch them.

"Innit good?" Jeff said.

I crouched and snatched the hilt of my dagger while hastily trying to remember all of my combat training. However, the second I stood with the blade ready in my hand, there was an ear-shattering _BANG_. My whole body jolted and I instinctively darted in front of Sherlock. As I shielded the detective, I realized that Jeff was falling to the floor. Blood was seeping across his chest and pooling out beneath him. A bullet had shot straight through his torso and into the door behind him.

"Move," Sherlock ordered as he grabbed my upper arms and lifted me up and placed me to the side as if I weighed nothing. The detective slid over the top of the table and ran to the far window to bend down to stare at the bullet hole that was pierced into it.

I couldn't find words. My eyes went from Sherlock to the bleeding cabbie on the floor. Who the hell shot a gun through the window?

Jeff groaned and let out a tight cough. I was amazed he was still alive and darted to his side.

"Uh..." I mumbled, uncertain of what to do. I had a dagger in my hand that I had been planning on thrusting into the man's gut ten seconds ago, yet here was was bleeding out. "Sherlock...?"

The detective turned and rushed over to us. He snatched a pill from the table; he must had dropped it earlier when the gunshot rang out. He knelt at the cabbie's side and held out the capsule with a shaking hand.

"Was I right?" Sherlock breathed.

Jeff, clearly astonished by the detective's priorities, turned his head away with his expression twisted in pain.

"I was, wasn't I?" Sherlock insisted. "Did I get it right?"

Jeff didn't respond. Sherlock hurled the pill across the room angrily and stood up. I slowly replaced the dagger in my boot and frowned down at the cabbie's strained face.

"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor," Sherlock said. "Who was it? The one who told you about me—my _fan._ I want a name."

"No," Jeff rasped.

"Sherlock, he dying," I pointed out as I got to my feet.

"He's dying, but there's still time to hurt him," Sherlock replied ruthlessly. He glared down at the cabbie. "Give me a name."

Jeff shook his head and closed his eyes. Clearly, he was determined to go out without divulging anything.

Sherlock pursed his lips. He lifted his foot and pressed it against Jeff's shoulder and the cabbie loosed a cry of pain.

"A _name_ ," Sherlock insisted.

Jeff's eyes found mine and I could see the plea in them. I could push Sherlock away; I could keep the detective back until Jeff died from blood loss. Too bad for the cabbie that four people were dead by his hands. I didn't naturally feel a connection to people—especially people I didn't know—but I was connected to my brother and he had taught me the difference between right and wrong.

" _Now,_ " Sherlock demanded.

Jeff let out a soft whimper, but nothing else.

Sherlock's expression was seized with something manic and feral. I found myself a bit taken aback by the ferocity the detective was capable of. He leaned his weight into the cabbie and Jeff screamed out even louder.

"The NAME!" Sherlock shouted.

Finally, Jeff's agonized screams formed a name: "MORIARTY!"

Sherlock stepped back and closed his eyes. He rolled his head to the side as if trying to loose additional information from the name. He looked toward the far wall, his face twisted with a mixture of confusion and concentration. He mouthed the name to himself, his brows furrowing.

Well, at least it was safe to say that whoever this Moriarty was, it wasn't the man in the warehouse; Sherlock was quite familiar with that one. So who was he? I stared down at Jeff as his breathing hitched and faded away. His head lolled to the side and the cabbie didn't move again.

"He's gone," I murmured.

I hadn't expected to see a second dead body so soon, let alone witness the life leave it. Oddly enough, I didn't feel distraught or scarred in any sense. It wasn't like my adventure novels or fictional shows I watched. I wasn't falling apart at the seams or crying my eyes out even after such a traumatic experience. All I could think of was who the hell this Moriarty was and why he paid someone to kill people.

Sherlock came to my side and stared down at Jeff with me. "I'll text Lestrade," he said. "You might want to call your brother. I told him we went to go eat, but given his reply, he's not too keen on us spending time alone together."

"He's a paradox," I mumbled as I fished for my mobile in my pocket.

Sherlock blinked at me quizzically.

I shrugged. "He always asks why I haven't dated anyone yet when I spend time with anyone of the opposite sex, he gets weird."

"It seems to be a theme with older brothers," Sherlock replied.

I paused before sliding open my phone and looked back at Jeff's corpse. Someone had just _died_ in front of us, yet here we were having a normal conversation. Oddly enough, I didn't find it disconcerting. In fact, I actually found a sense of relief passing through me. For once, I didn't have to _pretend._ I didn't have to act aghast at some tragedy or seem horrified at the concept of danger and death.

Sherlock and I had faced off against a challenge that invited the Grim Reaper himself and survived.

I could get used to this.

About a half hour later, Sherlock and I sat on the back bumper of an ambulance outside the college. A paramedic gently wrapped an weighted orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. I already had my own wrapped around me; it was heavy and admittedly comforting even though I didn't feel particularly distressed. Detective Inspector Lestrade walked toward us. His expression was both exasperated and a bit impressed.

"Why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock asked him when he reached us. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Perhaps you should just keep it on," I suggested. Every time the paramedics left, he'd shrugged it off.

"It's for shock," Lestrade said.

"I'm not _in_ shock," Sherlock argued.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade replied with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade seemed to remember I was there and his smile faded away. He examined me with a concerned expression. "Sorry, Maxine, I didn't mean to make it seem like this wasn't a serious situation. Are you all right?"

"She's not in shock either," Sherlock said for me.

"Sherlock." Lestrade shot him an irritated glare.

"He's right," I said while watching officers come and go out of the college.

"Oh. Well." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, clearly at a loss of what to say next.

"So, the shooter," Sherlock prompted. "No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got 'ere," Lestrade admitted; he was clearly grateful for the change of subject. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but..." He gave a small shrug. "Got nothing to go on."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade sighed and took a turn to roll his eyes. "Okay, gimme."

Sherlock hopped to his feet and gestured toward the building. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon—that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence."

I got up after him as my mind began to steadily piece things together. I abruptly remembered John grabbing his pistol from his drawer. I slowly turned to survey the area in an attempt not to give away my movements while Sherlock went on.

"He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle," the detective said. "You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."

I scooted closer to Sherlock and subtly elbowed him in the side. He frowned down at me, clearly not certain why I had interrupted him.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to bump into you, I guess I am a little... off."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes disbelievingly, but then his gaze sharpened and he glanced up and across the street. I followed his gaze to see my brother behind the police tape not too far away. He was staring off to the side and rubbing the back of his neck innocently.

"Actually, do you know what?" Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade had clearly never heard those two words from the detective before.

"Ignore all of that," Sherlock pressed. "It's just the, er, shock talking."

He glanced at me and gestured with his head for me to follow as he began to head toward John.

"Where're you two going?" Lestrade demanded.

"I just need to talk about the-the rent," Sherlock invented.

"But I've still got questions for you," Lestrade said.

Sherlock spun to face the Detective Inspector again with clear frustration. "Oh, what _now?_ I'm in shock—so is Max! Look, we've got the blankets!" He brandished his as if that proved it.

"I would like to talk to my brother," I added. "I'm sure he's been really worried."

"See?" Sherlock gestured to me. "Max just went through a traumatic ordeal and you're trying to keep her from her flesh and blood."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed in protest.

" _And_ we just caught a serial killer for you. More or less." Sherlock shrugged a little.

Lestrade loosed a frustrated breath and his eyes darted between the two of us for a moment. Then he grunted in defeat and waved us off. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

"Thanks," I said as Sherlock instantly turned and began heading toward my brother.

I followed after the detective and together we ducked under the tape to meet John. He was leaning against one of the police cars, but when he spotted our approach he instantly pushed himself off of it.

"Maxine," John breathed as he came forward to wrap me in a hug. "What were you _thinking?_ "

I returned his embrace awkwardly. John knew I wasn't big on touchy-feely things, but I supposed I owed him something after the stunt I pulled.

Sherlock tossed his blanket into the open window of the police car. "She helped stop a murderer, that's what she was thinking," he said. "Well, at least in part."

I decided to keep my blanket around me; I didn't need it, but it was nice. "I didn't mean to worry you," I told John.

"Sergeant Donovan was just explaining everything to me," John said. "The two pills... Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

His voice was tight and awkward. I shook my head at him with a small smile. "Oh, Johnny," I said.

Sherlock leaned in and whispered, "Good shot."

"Yes," John said, clearly still trying to feign innocence. "Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well _you'd_ know," Sherlock pressed.

John looked between the two of us, still attempting to keep his expression indifferent and innocent.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," Sherlock advised calmly. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

My brother cleared his throat and glanced around anxiously.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. I was surprised he had the notion to be concerned.

"Yes, of course I'm all right," John insisted.

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man," Sherlock reminded him.

"Yes, I..." John trailed off, still not meeting either of our gazes.

"John?" I prompted gently.

John finally looked at me and sighed. "That's true, isn't it?" he said. "Right in front of my sister no less."

In all honesty, I had been relieved when Jeff hit the floor instead of Sherlock taking that damn pill. Not to mention, I had been ready to stab the cabbie myself. Sherlock and I exchanged a small glance and I wondered if the detective was going to mention my dagger. If my brother had seen it through the window, he would have mentioned it by now.

"But he wasn't a very _nice_ man," John added and smiled lightly.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed when he realized that my brother was, in fact, fine. He gave a nod of agreement.

"No. No, he really wasn't, was he?" he said.

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," John added.

Sherlock chuckled and I grinned a little with amusement. At least John was able to take this situation and make it light. My brother glanced at me and his brows furrowed.

"You really are okay, aren't you?" he said softly.

I glanced down at myself as if to make sure all my limbs were there and then looked back up at him. "Far as I can tell."

"And I'm the one who went to war," John muttered, mostly to himself. He shook his head as he continued to stare at me. "Exactly when did you grow up?"

"About five years before you," I told him. "Strange, considering you're older than me."

John snorted and waved me off. "I'm going to need some time getting used to that."

"Used to what?" I queried with a tilt of my head.

"The fact that we have more in common than I like," John said.

We grinned at each other and Sherlock smiled at our exchange. The detective turned and we both went to follow him.

"Didn't expect to get _two_ assistants," Sherlock admitted, "but I think I'll make do. Oh, and John, you're absolutely right."

"About what?" John asked.

"He _was_ a bad cabbie," Sherlock said. "Should have seen the route he took us to get here."

John began to chuckle as I put a hand over my smiling mouth. My brother waved off Sherlock's grin.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!" John said in a harsh whisper, but small chortles were still coming out of his lips.

"You're the one who shot him," Sherlock pointed out. "Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" John hissed through a smile he was trying to force away.

We passed Donovan at that point who cast us a suspicious glance.

"Sorry—it's just, um, nerves, I think," John told her awkwardly.

"Sorry," Sherlock added as well.

"Triple sorry," I put in.

I was fairly certain the Sergeant kept her eyes on us as we walked away, but I wasn't about to look back. Once we were farther down the street, John turned his head to Sherlock and brought us to a halt.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" he said.

"'Course I wasn't," Sherlock replied swiftly. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"He's lying," I said.

Sherlock shot me a slightly impressed and annoyed glance.

"It's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" John said, taking the detective's attention off of me. "You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Because you're an idiot," John and I stated in unison.

Sherlock grinned. I was surprised by how delighted he appeared in that moment. Was he excited that he'd found people who actually understood him? I felt my own smile come to my lips as our eyes met. Sherlock had done more than show me an entire world that could more than keep me entertained: he helped my brother and I finally realize our true selves and the true selves of one another. Perhaps I wouldn't have to hide my oddities from John anymore; though I was fairly certain he'd always had a notion of the kind of person I was.

The detective's smile faded and he gestured with his head down the street. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," John agreed as I nodded.

The three of us turned and began heading away from the crime scene again. The night air kissed my cheeks and I reveled in its caress. I'd faced off against death and come out alive. Both Sherlock and John had encountered this before and I had a feeling they shared the same dopamine surge as I did with it, but this was still my first time. I had never experienced such... _feeling_ before. It was like a pressure I hadn't been aware of was suddenly released in my head. I felt like running and jumping down the sidewalk.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two," Sherlock said as we walked. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

I began to open my mouth to ask him how in the hell that told him anything but a familiar black car pulled up on the street not too far ahead of us and out stepped the man from the warehouse and Anthea.

"Sherlock," John instantly stopped dead and stared pointedly at the man. "That's him. That's the man we were talking to you about."

Sherlock turned to face the man as he approached and his expression twisted with anger. I cleared my throat and took a step back, curious as to how this was going to turn out.

"I know _exactly_ who that is," Sherlock snarled.

John began to glance back toward the crime scene, clearly trying to see if any officers were close enough to help if needed. I elbowed him and shook my head.

"It'll be fine," I assured.

John opened his mouth to argue, but the man finally reached us and paused before Sherlock. He examined the detective carefully and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but pleasant.

"So, another case cracked," the man said. "How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded heatedly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," the man replied as if it should be common fact.

"Yes," Sherlock said tightly. "I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

The man's expression fell into something mixed with irritation and disappointment. "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"We have more in common than you like to believe," the man pressed. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upsets Mummy."

There it was. I saw John frown with confusion at the last word, but I smiled. So this is what it felt like to make a deduction and have it proved right. I understood why Sherlock did it so often; I was elated. Though Sherlock and this man didn't appear entirely identical, I could see the subtle similarities in their smiles and their eye shapes—though the man's weren't as large and stunning as Sherlock's. There was also common themes in how they composed themselves and their postures. Clearly they were both confident men who learned how to stand and talk from the same parents.

" _I_ upset her? Me?" Sherlock was clearly outraged. He glowered up at the man. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait," John interjected. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"They're brothers," I told John.

"Yes," the man Sherlock called Mycroft said as he turned his eyes to me. "You had that figured out back at the warehouse. I see why Sherlock is interested in you."

Sherlock shot me a surprised look before pursing his lips. "Yes, this is my older brother, Mycroft," he confirmed. He ran his eyes over the taller man with heated irritation. "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft replied coolly.

"He's your _brother?!_ " John exclaimed to Sherlock.

"Of _course_ he's my brother," Sherlock said. "Max saw it, why can't you?"

"So he's not..." John trailed off, looking lost.

"Not what?" Sherlock prompted.

The two brothers looked at John as he gave a sheepish shrug. "I dunno... criminal mastermind?" He grimaced.

Sherlock locked his eyes back onto Mycroft. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government," Sherlock corrected, "when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

"Busy man," I muttered.

Mycroft sighed tightly.

"Good evening Mycroft," Sherlock dismissed. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." The detective began to stalk away.

John and I looked at each other, then to Sherlock's retreating back, then finally to Mycroft.

"So, when-when you said you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?" John asked.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said.

"I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?" John was blinking in disbelief.

Mycroft was still watching his brother walk away. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah..." John breathed, then seemed to rethink it. "No. God, no!"

I began to walk after Sherlock without a word. I was sure John would get the hint. Mycroft, however, called after me.

"Maxine."

I glanced over my shoulder with a perked brow.

"Do be careful," he said. "You may be... unique, but you are still new to this sort of thing. Don't get carried away."

"No clue what you mean," I replied innocently and kept on after Sherlock.

I heard John say something more to Mycroft, but I couldn't quite make out the words. I caught up to Sherlock and slowed my pace to match his.

"You knew," Sherlock abruptly said.

I shrugged. "Knew what?"

"Don't play coy, it's not cute." Sherlock refused to look at me as he kept on walking.

"Wasn't trying to be cute," I said.

"No, you were trying to be clever," Sherlock admitted. He shook his head with annoyance.

"Why are you mad about it?" I asked. "You knew who it was the whole time; it wasn't like this was a surprise."

Sherlock loosed a frustrated sigh. "That anyone could actually see _similarities_ between us within the first five minutes of meeting the other just makes my skin crawl."

I grinned and loosed an exhale of amusement.

"It's not funny." Sherlock was looking at me now, his green eyes slitted.

"No, of course not," I said, waving him off.

"Why _did_ you take my place in the cab?" Sherlock abruptly asked. "The cabbie was right about one thing: you're new to this sort of thing, and yet you made that decision at the drop of a hat. You thought he had a _real_ gun. You had to know that it would end badly."

"So: dim sum." John had caught up to us and walked on Sherlock's other side.

"I was thinking sweet and sour chicken," I offered, pleased with the convenient change of subject.

"Mmm!" Sherlock gave me one final glance that assured me he would press about the matter later, but then he faced forward and picked up his pace. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't," John stated.

"Almost can," Sherlock insisted. "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" John was taken off guard by the sudden switch in subject.

"In Afghanistan," the detective clarified. "There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah." John nodded. "Shoulder."

"Shoulder?" I blinked as I set my gaze on John. "I thought it was your leg!"

"Shoulder!" Sherlock exclaimed, completely ignoring me. "I thought so."

"No you didn't." I shot the detective a brief glare.

"The left one," Sherlock said.

"Lucky guess," John accused.

"I never guess."

"Yes you do," John and I said in unison.

Sherlock shook his head. "Two Watsons, what am I going to do with _two_ Watsons?"

"You'll figure something out," I assured him.

Sherlock began to smile. There was a glint in his eyes that reminded me of when he was about to take that bloody pill.

"What are you so happy about?" John asked.

"Moriarty," Sherlock murmured.

"What's Moriarty?" John blinked, perplexed.

"I have absolutely _no_ idea," Sherlock replied cheerfully.

I found myself grinning too. I had no idea that coming back to London was going to be the best thing for me. I had spent all my life chasing so many different things- new experiences and different ways to just occupy myself. Who knew that the answer had laid with the dirty back alleys of a big city where crime ran rampant and killers were scampering about just waiting to get caught?

I had just survived before now. This... _this_ was living.

* * *

 _Mycroft_

I slid my hands into my pockets as I watched my brother and his two new companions walk away. The woman beside me finally lowered her mobile and looked at me.

"Sir, shall we go?" she prompted.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow and his little sister," I mused softly.

The woman glanced briefly toward the retreating figures then lifted her phone again.

"They could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever before," I went on. "Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

"Sorry, sir," the woman said as she lifted her eyes from her phone again. "Whose status?"

I continued to gaze after the three departing figures. The doctor had been unyielding in my presence at the warehouse and wasn't deterred by Sherlock's nature, even with his sister involved; and the girl... Maxine Watson... I had a troubled knot in my gut about her. She had several similarities to Sherlock—so many that I had a feeling she carried the same disorder. Sherlock and John Watson had both experienced and worked with violence before; they were accustomed to it. Maxine had faced her first real taste of violence and life-threatening situations just in the past twenty-four hours, and yet she was completely unfazed.

"Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and his sister Maxine," I finally told the woman at my side before turning to walk back toward the car.


	11. The Blind Banker, Part 1

_Maxine_

I tugged my scarf closer around my neck as I made my way down Baker Street. It had been about a month since my brother and I moved in with Sherlock Holmes, and though we hadn't had an adventure on the level of _The Study in Pink_ (of which my brother fondly named for the blog post he was working on), I had yet to have a dull day.

I still technically had a job with my publishers back in Japan, so half of my room upstairs had been turned into an art studio. When I wasn't drawing and working on story boards, I was downstairs helping Sherlock look over potential cases. John worked on his blog and did most of our errands since he still had yet to find a job. I was trying to discretely take care of our rent with Mrs. Hudson, but John wasn't allowing me to take care of his portion. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. I considered it pension for letting me participate in his life as a detective.

At the moment, I had two boxes of takeout from the Chinese place down the street; one for myself and the other for Sherlock. John was out getting the groceries, and we didn't expect him back for a bit. He still didn't like me taking care of food for him either, so I'd only ordered extra on mine so he could have "leftovers" that I would complain about not wanting.

I reached 221B and headed into the main hall. I set the takeout down and kicked off my runners while shrugging off my coat; I didn't like keeping it upstairs where it could get potentially ruined by Sherlock's experiments or other _activities._ Even as I hung it in the hall, I heard pounding footsteps from upstairs. I glanced up and grimaced. Either Sherlock was busy being _very_ active, or there were two pairs of stomping feet up in our flat.

With a little extra haste, I took off my scarf as well before snatching the takeout and heading upstairs on my tiptoes. My socked feet made hardly any noise, and when I reached the door, I could hear muffled yells and grunts of anger.

When I was certain the noise was far from the door, I opened it and darted inside.

I thought that after a month of living with Sherlock Holmes that nothing would surprise me anymore, yet here I was with stretched eyes and a slack jaw watching the detective deftly dodging the hefty swings of a scimitar-wielding robed figure.

Sherlock's eyes met mine and widened a bit. He still managed to duck under yet another lethal attack as he tried to move around the man and toward me.

"Max, why are you back so early?" he demanded.

The man in robes turned and saw there was another person in the room. His head and lower face were completely shrouded in an assortment of scarves.

"I brought Chinese?" I offered weakly.

"Put it in the kitchen for now," Sherlock ordered. He was now positioned between me and the assailant.

Astonished that I was meant to just go about the flat like nothing was wrong, I decided to go ahead and obey the detective and head for the kitchen at a slight run. The robed man tried to lunge in my direction, but Sherlock swiftly dove in and rammed his shoulder into him to force him back. Safely in the kitchen, I set the takeout on the table and contemplated going upstairs to grab my dagger. I could at least let Sherlock use a weapon.

However, it seemed that the detective didn't need any form of weapon to be an effective fighter. He nimbly continued to dodge swing after swing of the blade. The robed man slashed and slashed, forcing Sherlock to back up and roll out of the way. Now there was open space between myself and the swordsman. The robed figure seemed to notice this and dove toward me.

"MAX!" Sherlock shouted in warning.

I took a small step back and loosed an exhale through my mouth. I'd never faced an actual assailant before, but there had been plenty of spars in which my teacher had wielded a stick against me. Miyako had been the strangest little Japanese woman I'd ever met, but she sure knew how to fight.

I watched the blade sing through the air, but I could tell it was aimed too low for my neck and too high for my abdomen. The man seemed to be holding it at an angle as well; not intending a heavy hit. I understood: he didn't want me dead, he wanted something as leverage against Sherlock. I darted to the side, my socks letting me slide clear to the other end of the kitchen in the same motion. The sword missed and the man's eyes blinked disbelievingly.

Seems like Miyako had known what she was doing when she gave me all those bruises. I'd have to email her a thank you note.

The robed man began to give chase and I swiftly turned and darted around the kitchen table. Luckily, he took the bait and went around in pursuit; it left me clear to get into the living room with Sherlock.

"You're fast," Sherlock said to me, seeming just as surprised as our attacker.

"He's sloppy," I replied.

Sherlock grinned just before the robed man was back in the living room with us. With a furious shout, he slashed the scimitar toward the both of us. In unison, we jumped back, but we misjudged the distance we had to the couch and collapsed onto it. As the man came running for us again, I tucked my feet under me, gripped the back of the sofa, and pushed myself up and over it so I landed on my feet on the other side. Sherlock, meanwhile, lifted a leg and kicked the man hard in the gut just before he could swing the sword down on him.

The man was sent stumbling across the room, leaving the detective to get to his feet. Sherlock took a moment to straighten his jacket before charging in at the attacker again. I was starting to think my dagger might be a good idea after all, but there was really no time to go get it. I began to come around the couch to assist Sherlock as he landed a hefty punch in the man's gut. The attacker recovered faster than anticipated and swung the scimitar up toward Sherlock's face. The detective was forced to dart backward to avoid losing his chin.

"Stand back, Max," Sherlock insisted as I approached.

"He has a _sword,_ " I pointed out. "We can outnumber him!"

The robed man swung his blade again and Sherlock had to sidestep toward the kitchen to dodge it. His posture was lose and held no particular form, but it reminded me somewhat of boxing. Meanwhile, I took a stance Miyako had taught me: my feet made an uppercase L shape while being placed about a foot apart and I held one hand close to my waist and the other out and at the ready. Perhaps, if I was careful enough, I could disarm this guy.

However, it seemed the swordsman was through with trying to go after me; he clearly saw Sherlock as the larger threat and one that needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later. He charged at the detective with an angry yowl, but Sherlock managed to grab the wrist of his sword hand. The man gripped the tip of his blade with his free hand and shoved it toward Sherlock in an effort to bury the sharp edge into his throat. The two stumbled backward toward the table.

"Not the takeout!" I cried, but too late. The two crashed onto the table and the two boxes of delicious Chinese crashed to the ground and spilled everywhere.

As the men wrestled on top of the table, I darted in to see if I could salvage any of the food. Some of the wontons managed to stay in the boxes, but my chicken and rice were done for. I scooped up the boxes that still carried some of the food and set it on the counter instead. When I turned, I saw that Sherlock was grimacing with the effort to keep the blade off his neck.

I gave a small yelp, astounded I'd been more concerned about food than the detective's life, but before I could make a move, Sherlock punched the man's right wrist upward to keep the sword from cutting into him. The tip of it dug into the table as Sherlock lifted his left leg and kneed the man in the side several times. The attacker's grip weakened and Sherlock forced himself up again with the man toppling off of him and onto the floor at my feet. The sword tip gouged a deep cut in the table as he fell.

Before our robed foe could get back to his feet, I reared back my leg and kicked him hard in the gut. It ended up hurting my toes like hell considering I didn't have shoes on, but the man still grunted in pain and laid stunned just long enough for Sherlock to come around the table. The detective reached down, grabbed the man by the back of his robes, and flung him back into the living room.

"That's for ruining my lunch," he said with a clipped tone.

I exhaled with amusement and followed Sherlock to the living room. The robed man had managed to get to his feet and held his scimitar at the ready. He took a wild swing which Sherlock ducked expertly. He then looked toward the mirror that was to the side of them and pointed at it.

"Look!" he exclaimed.

The man actually looked. I couldn't believe this scimitar-wielding maniac actually fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book; but he turned toward the mirror and gave Sherlock the only opening he needed. The detective thrust his fist up in a powerful uppercut beneath the man's chin. It sent him falling back into one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and his head lolled as his sword fell from his hand; he was out cold.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the mirror and began straightening his suit and sleeve cuffs.

"Jaria Diamond case?" I breathed when the detective glared at the unconscious man.

"Solved now," Sherlock replied calmly. He hardly even seemed winded.

Meanwhile, I'd barely done anything and I was panting slightly. Time to start working out again, it seemed. I shook my head. "They came to the flat?"

"Well, the address is on the website," Sherlock replied. "How else would clients know to come here?"

"I dunno, they could just phone you," I suggested.

"Best not to mention this to John," Sherlock said. "He's still coming to terms with you being in... complex situations."

"He'll come round," I muttered as I looked over the unconscious man in the chair. "So, he have a name?"

"I'd assume so, haven't the foggiest what it is, though," Sherlock admitted. "Could you go get us more food?"

"What about him?" I gestured to the man.

"I'll take care of it." Sherlock waved me off. "Go on, tell Lee I said hello."

I sighed heavily and nodded before turning to head back downstairs. "Next time, you're buying," I called over my shoulder.

About an hour later, I tossed some empty takeout boxes in the bin and carefully placed a third full one in the fridge. When I'd returned to the flat, the robed man was nowhere to be seen. I had to assume that Sherlock didn't kill the poor bastard; I'd guessed he was waking up in some alley with a throbbing headache.

Sherlock, having finished his meal and still not making any mention of the previous incident, was reading a book in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. I tossed him a fortune cookie as I went to sit across from him and the detective expertly caught it without looking up.

"I have a question," he suddenly said, placing the book upside down on his leg so as not to lose his place. He began to break open the fortune cookie without meeting my gaze. "Why do you let me call you Max?"

I blinked, slightly taken off guard by the randomness of his query. "Uh, what?"

"You let me call you Max," Sherlock repeated and his pale green eyes flicked up and fixated on mine. "And yet with Lestrade and the other officers, even Mrs. Hudson, you introduced yourself as Maxine. John, of course, calls you Maddie, which clearly no one else is allowed to do. But with me, you've asked me to call you neither—I'm granted the pleasure of calling you Max; why is that?"

In complete honesty, it hadn't really occurred to me. I frowned and stared at my own unbroken fortune cookie for a moment.

"I suppose that I figured you were gonna be our flatmate, so might as well be on informal terms," I said with a small shrug.

"An unconscious decision, really?" Sherlock seemed pleasantly surprised. He slipped his fortune from his cookie and read it. Whatever had been on the paper seemed to amuse him and he leaned forward to offer it to me while popping one half of the cookie in his mouth.

"What, you didn't want to guess what it was first?" I asked as I took it from him.

It read: _You will learn something new about a friend today._

"Seems sometimes they can be right, if a bit late," Sherlock mused through his mouth full. He swallowed and eyed me. "Do you have any idea why you just _decided_ to be so informal with me? Coming back from two years in Japan, I'd like to assume it's something significant."

"My teacher back in Japan called me Akage," I said. "Right away too. Took me a little off guard. I suppose she kind of kept me from falling completely into the whole honorifics thing."

"'Redhead' in Japanese. Fitting. You certainly have a lot of names you go by..." Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Judging by how you handled yourself with our guest earlier, I'd say you studied Aikido. But you have that dagger you're so fond of and given how you wield it, even when there's no-one to stab, you know how to use it. Aikido is generally a peaceful combat: one designed to keep yourself and your attacker safe."

He really was too good at this deduction business. I leaned back in my seat and cracked open my own cookie. "Miyako was primarily an Aikido instructor, yes," I said. "But she had a theory about... certain combatants that one might come up against."

"A theory?" Sherlock perked a brow.

I slid out my fortune and saw it read: _Time may fly, but memories don't._

"Ah, this one is just general," I grunted and leaned forward to pass it to Sherlock.

He took it and looked it over while I stuffed the cookie into my mouth. I wasn't certain if I wanted to talk to Sherlock about my time with Miyako. I was certain he'd understand, but at the same time I wasn't quite willing to give up the one thing Sherlock Holmes had yet to discern about me.

"So." Sherlock didn't seem like he intended to let me slide by without answering his questions. He tossed the fortune aside and into the fireplace while eyeing me. "Your teacher was an Aikido instructor, and yet she taught you how to be dangerous if needed. Did her theory involve the idea that some attackers need to be repelled by the threat of death?"

"I... suppose?" I shrugged and hoped my nonchalant manner would deter the detective. Before he could ask more, I added, "I guess I'm not someone who gets comfortable with many people. Japan's culture was almost familiar to me when it came to their sense of respect and formality—you only called people by their first name if you knew them."

"But I didn't know you," Sherlock pointed out. "Not on a personal level, anyway, socially speaking."

I grinned a little when I remembered him dissecting John and my history the first time we met.

"Like I said, it just kind of happened." I leaned back in my chair.

"I know," Sherlock said. "I just want to figure out why..."

"Does everything have to have an answer?" I queried.

"Yes," the detective replied without hesitation as he picked his book back up.

I snorted softly with amusement.

At that point, the door opened and John walked into the flat. He paused the moment he stepped into the living room and looked around with a pensive expression, as if he could tell something significant happened while he was away.

"You took your time," Sherlock said without raising his eyes off his book.

"Yeah. I didn't get the shopping," John confessed.

 _Now_ Sherlock looked up. "What? Why not?" He seemed insulted.

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," John retorted tightly.

I blinked and turned in my chair to eye my brother. "You... had a row... with a machine...?"

John waved me off irritably. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?" The last question was aimed a Sherlock. Technically, the groceries were mainly for the detective, but I still found it annoying that John was fine with getting financial help from Sherlock but not me.

Sherlock was clearly trying not to smile at John's distress. "Take my card," he offered.

John turned and began to head toward the kitchen where Sherlock's wallet lay on the table, but then he paused and turned to glare indignantly at our flatmate. "You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left."

I sat back in my chair and bounced my eyebrows at Sherlock with the luxury of my back being to my brother. Sherlock had to fight off another smile.

"And what happened about that case you were offered—the Jaria Diamond?" John demanded.

"Not interested," Sherlock said coolly.

He took the fortune from his cookie off my chair's armrest and used it as a bookmark. With a _snap_ he closed the book and paused for a brief moment, staring down. I followed his gaze to see the robed man's scimitar was sitting in plain view beneath the detective's chair. Sherlock swiftly pressed his foot on the hilt and slid it further beneath the chair and out of sight.

"I sent them a message," he added with the faintest of smirks.

I recalled his uppercut on the robed man and grinned.

In the kitchen, John rummaged among the scattered items on the table until he found Sherlock's wallet. I got to my feet and headed toward him, intent on casually mentioning the leftover Chinese in the fridge, but at that point my brother spotted the deep gauge in the table and ran a finger over it.

"Ugh, Holmes," he whispered exasperatedly.

In the living room, Sherlock shrugged innocently.

"Do I dare ask if you had anything to do with this too?" John's eyes darted up to mine.

I blinked and looked from the gauge in the table then up to my brother.

"So... there's leftover Chinese in the fridge? I got a stomach ache if you wanted..." I gestured weakly toward the fridge.

John groaned and took his leave from the flat. Sherlock smirked as the door shut behind the doctor and bounced his eyebrows at me like I'd done to him earlier.

About a half hour later, John returned with his arms full of bags. I heard his arrival more than anything since I'd gone up to my room to draw. I still had yet to have Sherlock sit and let me draw him; between my actual work for my publishers and the cases with Sherlock I didn't have the time.

"Don't worry about me. I can manage," I heard my brother's voice trail up the stairs.

Taking that as my cue, I put my pencil down and trotted down the steps to assist.

"Thanks," I said to John as I grabbed some of the bags. "So next time, you could just take some cash from me—"

"No, Maddie, that's quite all right," John interjected as he pulled some milk out of a bag. "It's not necessary."

"Paradox..." I muttered under my breath.

"Sorry?" John shot a glare at me.

"Nothing," I said.

"Maddie, if you have something to say—" John began but then his eyes locked onto Sherlock, who was in the living room with a laptop. "Is that my computer?" he demanded of the detective.

"Of course," Sherlock said as he began to type something.

"What?" John exclaimed.

"Mine was in the bedroom," Sherlock replied, as if that absolved him of any fault.

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John barked.

Sherlock didn't reply, he merely continued to type away.

"It's password protected!" John shouted.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said, still typing. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He shot a small glance at John. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you." John stormed over to Sherlock and slammed the laptop closed before snatching it away. He took it across the room and placed it by the armchair I was in earlier and plopped down in it, clearly annoyed.

"I'll just finish putting all this away, then," I murmured as I pulled the groceries out of their bags.

Neither of the boys bothered to respond to me. I heard some papers being rustled while I shoved the cold goods away in the fridge.

"Oh," John's voice sounded. There was another flick of paper. "Need to get a job."

I looked over my shoulder but with John's back to me I couldn't see past the armchair to see what he was doing. Given the sounds of paper, however, I was going to guess he found his overdue notices on the bills. I had thought about hiding them and just paying them off, but I knew John would put two and two together eventually and be livid.

"Oh, dull," Sherlock muttered.

"We can't all just solve crime for a living," I told the detective.

He didn't reply to me. He sat on the couch with his hands pressed together; he seemed completely lost in thought. I wondered what was going through his head.

"Maddie, erm, can you get me... uh, a pen?" John abruptly asked, leaning over his armrest to look back at me.

"A pen?" I echoed.

John nodded. His lips were in a tight line and he had that wide-eyed doey look he got when he was trying to act innocent.

"Are you going to ask Sherlock for money while I'm upstairs?" I asked.

John nearly fell out of his chair as his hand slipped off the armrest. "What? No. No, not at all—why-why would I..."

"This is why you're a paradox," I told him flatly. "You refuse help from me, but then you go to Sherlock. It makes no sense—what difference does it make to your pride?"

John's brows lowered and I could tell I'd struck a nerve.

"Are you kidding?" he snapped.

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock said abruptly.

We both looked at him, confused.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock got to his feet and went to snatch his coat before heading down the stairs. I exchanged a glance with my brother; our disagreement was going to have to wait. Sherlock Holmes only ever got that look in his eyes when he was about to tackle a new problem.

Shad Sanderson Bank was a massive building that towered on Old Broad Street. Sherlock led us through the revolving glass doors and into a magnificent lobby.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank..." John began in a small voice as he stared around the impressive foyer.

Sherlock offered no explanation as he walked purposefully forward and stepped onto an escalator that stretched up to the second floor. John and I followed the detective after exchanging a glance that said: _Here we go again._

Most of the building was white—white walls, white floors. The only splashes of color came from the light brown desks and the furniture which ranged from a deep, unsaturated red, to a oaken brown. Most of it was just chairs scattered here and there for people to wait in most likely. There were a few tables and I could spy a coffee machine with some paper cups and sugar packets near a waiting area.

There were small machines next to the glass doors that led further into the building that required cards to gain access; employees only. As we rode up the escalator, I noticed that John and I weren't the only ones examining our surroundings. Sherlock's pale green eyes darted around the area with the sharpness of a knife. They lingered on the security system longer than anything else.

When we reached the second floor, Sherlock strode to the receptionist's desk that sat directly across from the top of the escalator.

"Sherlock Holmes," was all he said to the woman behind it.

We were showed to an office deeper in the building, one that required us to be let in through the glass doors by one of the receptionist's cards. The office was large, suggesting whoever owned it was of rather high stature with the company. I noted the name plate on the door as we entered: Sebastian Wilkes. There were large windows that stretched floor to ceiling behind the dark wooden desk that faced the door with a nice view of London. There were two black cushioned chairs on our side of the desk, obviously for visitors.

A man with neatly-kept dark hair and a fair complexion came strolling in shortly after us. He wore a tailored deep blue suit and a checkered tie that went well with it. A wide smile threw deep laugh lines into view when he spotted his guests.

"Sherlock Holmes," he greeted.

"Sebastian," Sherlock replied, extending a hand.

Sebastian grasped it with both of his own and gave it a firm shake. "Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

As Sherlock took his hand back, he eyed Sebastian with marginally disguised distaste. I could see his discomfort in the small line that appeared between his brows and how he slightly lifted his head to stare down his nose at Sebastian rather than dead on.

Sebastian, however, didn't appear to notice. He turned his attention to John and me, lifting his brows curiously.

"These are my _friends_ , John Watson and his sister Maxine," Sherlock explained.

I wondered if Sherlock was trying to make up somewhat for his earlier dispute with John about his computer.

"Friends?" Sebastian echoed, clearly picking up the emphasis on the word.

"Colleagues," John corrected.

"Right," Sebastian said and took my brother's hand in his own. "Right..."

I noted how Sebastian tossed Sherlock a brief look that reminded me of being back in the schoolyard as a kid. The other children never quite got along with me, usually because I didn't filter anything I said and didn't get attached to anyone. It was before John taught me the importance of blending in. Some of the kids enjoyed pestering me and poking fun.

The look Sebastian threw at Sherlock was that of a bully—plain and simple. It said: _You have a friend? Not likely._

I decided in that moment that I didn't care for Sebastian Wilkes.

He turned and extended his hand to me. I eyed it for a heartbeat, heavily considering ignoring it altogether. However, out of the corner of my eye, I saw John's eyes narrow slightly. It was like he knew I was in one of my rare moods of malice. I bit my tongue hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to draw blood and gripped the unpleasant man's hand in mine and shook it, though I refused to offer him a smile.

Clearly taken aback by my cold stare, Sebastian released my hand quickly and headed toward his desk. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "Well, grab a pew," he invited. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?"

Sherlock and I shook our heads while John said, "No."

"No?" Sebastian clarified before looking to the secretary that guided us in. "We're all sorted here, thanks."

As the office door closed, Sebastian sat down in a large expensive-looking chair behind his desk. The three of us paused when we noted there were only two chairs.

"Go on," John said to me, gesturing to the seat.

"I can stand," Sherlock offered.

"I _want_ to stand," I stated firmly while keeping my eyes on Sebastian.

"I'm so sorry, I could get a third chair in here," he said, starting to rise from his chair.

"No," I interjected tightly. "I'll stand."

John, who understood how I was when I got in these moods, sat down without further argument. Sherlock, meanwhile, looked from me to the open seat and hesitated.

"You're the reason we're here," I told the detective. "Sit."

Sherlock blinked, taken off guard by my sharp tone. He eyed me one last time before sitting down. I elected to start pacing slowly around the office, examining the sparsely stocked bookshelves on the walls.

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock said after an awkward pause. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Sebastian admitted.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock folded his hands in front on him while propping his elbows on the armrests.

I turned to see John frowning with confusion, but Sebastian merely laughed and pointed at the detective.

"Right. You're doing that thing," he said. Sebastian looked at John and even cast me a small glance. "We were at uni together," he explained. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said quietly.

There was something in Sherlock's voice that drew me to his side. I paused beside him and folded my arms, my eyes darting between him and Sebastian.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian went on, completely ignoring Sherlock.

"Yes, we've seen him do it," John said. He warily looked toward Sherlock and me. I could see a new strain in my brother's posture; seems I wasn't the only one who didn't like Sebastian.

"Put the wind up everybody," Sebastian said, still smiling. "We hated him."

Sherlock's gaze dropped and he tilted his head down as his expression flooded with the briefest flash of pain. My arms dropped to my sides and my jaw slackened slightly, astonished at the level of emotion I'd just witnessed.

"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," Sebastian went on.

"I simply observed," Sherlock murmured.

John didn't see the detective's shattered expression—his eyes had been on Sebastian—but he did notice my change in posture. He noticed my jaw clamp shut and my mouth twitch.

"Maddie, why don't you sit down." My brother abruptly got to his feet and strode around Sherlock's chair to grip my shoulder. "Go on. Weren't you feeling a bit off earlier? Probably the carsickness from the cab."

I had seen John able to lie his way through certain things when we were growing up; on occasion he was excellent at it. However, the majority of the time he was absolute rubbish. His words to me were clumsy and his eyes were pleading as he gestured to his now empty seat.

The thing was, I didn't get angry often. I wasn't an emotional person. Most of the time if something unpleasant happened around me, I would only show mild annoyance. However, John and I grew up together; he had seen the rare situations where I got legitimately mad. Apparently it wasn't something that was socially acceptable given how much he tried to stop any of my outbursts now that we were adults. Right now, I could tell he was trying to distract me—trying to tear my mind away from Sebastian until my moment of blinding rage passed.

"Oh, d'you need some water, Max?" Sebastian asked.

My head snapped back to face him. "Don't call me Max."

Sebastian actually winced at my tone. After a few blinks of shock, he laughed nervously and looked at Sherlock. "I think I understand why the two of you get on! Can she do the trick too?"

I narrowed my eyes toward Sebastian. If I _could_ do the level of Sherlock's observations, I'd be thrilled. The detective's skills had set new heights for my own ambitions.

"Go on, enlighten me," Sebastian said, looking from me to Sherlock. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world—you're quite right. How can you tell?"

Sherlock began to open his mouth to reply, but Sebastian cut in with a smugness clinging to every word.

"You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

"No, I..." Sherlock tried again.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" Sebastian crowed over him.

"Well, it certainly wasn't your civility and cultured manner," I whispered under my breath.

"Sorry?" Sebastian's cocky grin faded to a frown.

Sherlock shot me a small grin before turning back to Sebastian. "I was just speaking to your secretary outside. _She_ told me.

That was a lie, but I followed Sherlock's logic. Such a simple explanation would annoy the hell out of a guy like Sebastian; and sure enough, Sebastian laughed humorlessly and shook his head. He clapped his hands together and grew more serious.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in," he said.


	12. The Blind Banker, Part 2

**_A/N::: Sorry for the delayed Chapter again, guys, I was the Maid of Honor at a wedding this last weekend, so I was running around far too much to get this posted. Next chapter will be here on Friday on schedule! Enjoy!_**

* * *

 _John_

Sebastian Wilkes led us across the trading floor toward another door across from his office. There were office workers scattered about the cubicles, some talking on phones, others merely typing away at their computers. I couldn't help but glance warily toward my sister as we went. The last time I saw her get this angry was at Harry two Christmases ago. Our older sister had had too much to drink and decided to openly address how strange and off Maxine truly was.

There had only been two times prior to that when I'd witnessed Maxine's composure break: once just outside of my high school when I was being harassed by classmates that were bigger and stronger than me, and the second time was when we were at a pub and she stopped two men from pestering a waitress in the parking lot.

I was certain there had to be other times when Maxine grew angry, but there seemed to be a common theme each time from my personal experience. My little sister couldn't handle people being picked on—people being pushed around or bullied when they did nothing wrong. Even when it was her first year in grade school, she'd come sprinting over and drilled into an older boy and sent him off crying with words alone. She was six years old and I was seventeen; I still wasn't sure if my pride in her outweighed how embarrassing it was to be saved by a six-year-old.

Admittedly, Sebastian didn't seem to be all that great of an individual. There was something in how openly he addressed Sherlock that didn't sit right with me. The moment after I corrected my flatmate with using the word "colleagues" instead of friends, I regretted it. Sebastian had cast Sherlock a look of sheer and undisguised surprise; but it was far from the pleasant sort of shock one had when hearing about an announced engagement or something. No, there was nothing _pleasant_ in Sebastian Wilkes.

Yet, all the same, Maxine and I had both seen how untactful Sherlock Holmes could be in social settings. Perhaps back then he didn't notice it was rude, but I knew for a fact that now he was far too smart to not understand how words could affect someone. I suppose I was just surprised with how quickly my sister rose to the detective's defense. We'd only been with him a month, but I guess they both did have a close run-in with death together with that cab driver, Jeff Hope. Perhaps they'd formed a bond.

Though, if Sherlock Holmes could actually _bond_ with anyone, I'd be a bit surprised. Granted, I think I would be more pleasant about it than Sebastian.

"Sir William's office," Sebastian explained when we reached the door. "The bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" I asked, wanting to get to the point so we could leave as soon as possible.

"Nothing," Sebastian answered. "Just left a little message."

He held his security card to the small reader by the door and it unlocked with a beep and a click. When Sebastian swung the door wide and we stepped inside, the first thing that caught my attention was the paint. There was a large white wall that was blank other than a large framed portrait of a man in a suit; I guessed it was the late Sir William Shad himself. Directly to the left of the frame was an odd symbol sprayed on the wall with yellow paint. It vaguely reminded me of a figure 8, but the top loop was left open and just above it was a horizontal straight line. There was an identical horizontal line dashed across the eyes of the man in the painting. Perhaps the culprit used a bit too much paint because some of the yellow substance dripped down from it.

Sebastian led the way toward the desk and stepped to the side to allow Sherlock a clear view of the wall. I decided to go and stand next to Sebastian as the detective stared with fixation at the graffiti. Maxine went to Sherlock's side and gazed up at the painting with a small frown.

"The material on the canvas caused the paint to run," she noted softly, gesturing up at the line across the man's eyes.

"D'you know what kind of paint would do that?" Sherlock asked her.

"Mm, not off the top of my head, I'm afraid," Maxine confessed, still staring up at the paint. "Cheap, most likely. I don't work with sprays often."

"C'mon," Sebastian prompted. "Let me show you the security footage."

When we returned to Sebastian's office, the three of us peered over his shoulders at the monitor of his screen. Unfortunately, they didn't have video, just stills that were taken every minute. Sebastian showed us two stills: one with Sir William's office immaculate, and the very next one with the paint in place but not a single person in sight.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian clarified. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting," Sebastian said.

He led us back to the reception area where we went to yet another computer. He brought up a layout of the trading floor and its surrounding offices. Each indicated door has a light against it showing its security status.

"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet," Sebastian explained.

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock noted.

"There's a hole in our security," Sebastian said. "Find it, and we'll pay you—five figures."

That was a nice sum that we could certainly use. As of right now, with Sherlock between cases and me without a job, Maxine was the bread-winner of the three of us and that didn't sit well with me. Sebastian took a check from his jacket and offered it to Sherlock.

"This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way," he said.

"I don't _need_ an incentive, Sebastian," Sherlock replied with a clipped tone and walked away.

Maxine glanced at Sebastian one more time, not even bothering to hide her contempt for the man, and then followed after the detective.

"He's, uh, he's kidding you, obviously," I told Sebastian and held out my hand. "Sh-shall I look after that for him?"

Sebastian handed me the check with a small smile.

"Thanks," I said and glanced at the figure before pocketing it. Dear Lord, it was a lot. This was an _advance?_

"Your sister doesn't seem to like me," Sebastian noted as the two of us began to head after Sherlock and Maxine.

"Maxine is... she's just..." I shook my head, unable to really come up with an excuse for her.

"She and Sherlock spend a lot of time together?" Sebastian asked.

"I mean... the three of us share a flat," I said. "She's an artist and works from her studio in her room, and I guess when Sherlock isn't on a case, he's home... so yes?"

Sebastian chuckled.

"What?" I frowned at him.

"I just never expected for a woman to be so defensive over _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people," Sebastian said. "Especially one so attractive."

My fists clenched and I shot a sharp look at the suited man, but he was clearly oblivious to my distaste.

"D'you think that maybe if I apologize to her that I could stand a chance?" Sebastian queried. "Perhaps take her to get a drink?"

"Maxine doesn't drink," I invented swiftly. It wasn't entirely untrue—the only drinking Maxine partook in was wine and sake, and only on social occasion.

"Ah, then perhaps just dinner..." Sebastian seemed to contemplate.

"Y'know? Actually, I uh... I lied, earlier, sorry, see— _I'm_ Sherlock's colleague, but he and Mad—er—Maxine, they get on real well," I said and cleared my throat awkwardly. "Real, real well."

" _Really?_ " Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. "That he could actually land in with a girl like her..."

I nodded and quickened my pace to catch either Sherlock or my sister before Sebastian could.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Back in Sir William's office, Sherlock had his mobile out and was taking photographs. I stared up at the paint with a small frown.

"A message... these symbols aren't random, they have to mean something," I said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed softly, "and why leave a message for someone who can't understand it?"

The detective turned toward the expansive bay windows on the wall to our left. He stared out at the impressive view the Swiss Re Tower before frowning and looking away in thought. Then, he abruptly began to head toward the windows. I followed after him and observed as he pulled the blinds to reveal a door onto a small balcony. He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing and stared around.

I came to his side, the wind biting at me the moment I left the sheltered office.

"There's no keycard security to get in from this door," I said.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied. He observed the spectacular view of the city before looking down at the very, very long drop to the ground. "Though he certainly didn't _climb_ up here."

"Not _up,_ no," I said. "What about down or across?"

Sherlock looked along the railing before biting his lips and darting back inside. I followed after him, closing the door behind us. The detective was already striding across the trading floor with purpose. I frowned and remained by the painting to watch as Sherlock ducked down behind a desk before slowly rising up from behind it, all the while keeping his green eyes fixated on the painting.

"Maddie."

I blinked and turned to see John walking toward me. He was on his own and I wondered where Sebastian had gone and if I was going to have to deal with him again.

"Listen, this is going to be a little awkward," John began, but then he spotted Sherlock across the trading floor where the detective was ducking sideways and hurrying across the room much to the amusement of some of the workers. "What is he doing?"

"Y'know, I had an idea earlier, but now, I haven't the foggiest," I said.

John shook his head and turned away from Sherlock's frantic scampering and looked at me again. "Look, uh, I can tell you don't like that Sebastian guy, so I did you... let's call it a favor?"

Though Sherlock's dance across the trade floor was still certainly amusing, I turned my attention to my brother. "What did you do?"

"No need to sound so accusing," John muttered. "Look, he _fancies_ you. Wanted to know his chances with you on a date. I might have hinted that you... are involved with someone. To save you from his pestering, of course."

"Me? Involved with someone?" I echoed with a shake of my head. "So if he asks for names or something should I just come up with them on the fly? Pull them from my manga? I can tell him how Kazros Frost and I go out for tea once a week with him mum, that won't sound weird."

"Um, no, I gave him a name already," John said with a small grimace and glanced toward the trade room.

I followed his gaze to see Sherlock was still at it. He was twirling around a column before backing toward an office on the other side of the room.

"No," I said, looking back at John with disbelief.

"Sorry, I didn't think!" John said. "It just kind of spilled out of my mouth."

"Bloody hell, Johnny," I sighed. "I've no idea if he'll even go on with this."

"Oh, he's smart—he'll catch on," John insisted.

"So let me get this straight," I said as I began to head out onto the trade floor toward Sherlock. "Some guy finally fancies me and you want him to think I'm taken?"

"You don't like him," John said.

"I'm surprised I don't taste copper when I'm around you," I muttered.

"Sorry?" John blinked with confusion.

"Because you're a paradox— ...you know what? Never mind." I waved my brother off as we finally reached Sherlock.

The detective was in another office, looking around with a small frown. He'd stopped his strange dance and finally took his eyes off the damaged painting.

"Interesting exercise routine," I said.

Sherlock looked at me and then grabbed me by the shoulders. I gave a small yelp of surprise as he quickly moved me around to stand behind the chair of the desk in the office. He then released me and pointed out the door.

"See that?" he asked.

I followed his finger and saw that right where I was standing was a perfect view of the graffitied portrait.

"Ah." I nodded, finally understanding his odd movements. "You wanted to see who'd be able to notice the message."

"Yes, and this is the only spot on the whole trade floor with a direct view of the painting," Sherlock said. He was back to looking around the office.

"Um, Sherlock..." John stood in the doorway and he appeared sheepish.

"Ah, here." The detective paid no notice to him. He'd found something just outside the door and slid it free. It was a nameplate for whoever resided in this office.

I approached him and saw the name was Edward Van Coon. According to the other sign next to the now empty nameplate, he was the Hong Kong Desk Head.

"We're done here," Sherlock announced and began to head across the trading floor again. Several of the workers stared as he went by, some of which were giggling.

"Sherlock," John called after him and lengthened his stride to catch up.

"Yes, what?" Sherlock asked. He was clearly in full detective mode; he was off in his own world, eager and ready to tackle this new problem.

"I, uh, might have given Sebastian the impression that you're seeing Maddie," John said, his words swift as if he partially hoped the detective wouldn't follow.

Sherlock paused and looked at my brother with raised brows. "Okay, why?"

"Apparently Sebastian fancies me," I replied with a shrug. "This is John defending my honor."

"Oh." Sherlock seemed to calm considerably. "Well, if that's the case, I'm all for it."

He reached over and gripped my hand before pulling me along toward the escalators. I stumbled with his abrupt stride.

"Seriously?" I said, half laughing.

"Anything to irritate Sebastian Wilkes," Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"Two trips around the world this month," John said as he came to Sherlock's other side. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock merely smiled.

"How _did_ you know?" John asked.

"Yes, I'm quite curious too," I admitted.

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock said.

"His watch?" John repeated while I frowned.

"The time was right, but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it," Sherlock said.

"Within a month? How'd you get that part?" John pressed.

"New Breitling," Sherlock answered. "Only came out this February."

"Okay." John seemed satisfied with the answer. We were both getting used to Sherlock being able to deduce things the way he did. "So you're sure you're done here? Don't want to sniff around a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know, thanks," Sherlock replied. "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We were just in his office- Edward Van Coon. We find him, the intended recipient..."

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finished for him.

"Obvious," Sherlock said.

We reached the escalators and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder before descending them. He gave a disappointed tut and shook his head. "Of course Sebastian is nowhere to be seen now..." He released my hand and stepped onto the escalator.

I grinned as I stepped on behind him. "You dislike him so much that you'd pretend to date me?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "If he fancies you, it's the perfect thing to make him mental."

"Hold on, how did you narrow it down to that guy's office?" John suddenly asked.

"His dance, remember?" I said.

"Pillars," Sherlock added.

"What?" John frowned at us.

"Pillars and screens," Sherlock clarified. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" John asked.

We reached the bottom floor now and headed back out the rotating glass doors.

"Traders come to work at all hours," Sherlock explained as we stepped into the winter air of London. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." He showed John the nameplate he'd taken earlier. "Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." With that, he held out a hand into the street and called, "Taxi!"

As the cab pulled up, Sherlock opened the door and stepped back to allow me in first.

"You never do this," I accused.

"Sebastian might be looking out the window," Sherlock said. "Go on." He grinned widely.

After a short taxi ride, Sherlock, John, and I were outside a block of flats and Sherlock was pressing a door buzzer marked "Van Coon" and peering up into the security camera above. He waited for a few seconds, then tried the buzzer again, but there was still no response.

"So, what do we do now?" John asked. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sherlock examined the number of buzzers on the wall and stepped back to look up at the front face of the building. His brow was furrowed and I could tell he was calculating something in his mind. He then returned to the buzzers and grinned at John and me triumphantly.

"Just moved in," he said.

"What?" John and I replied in unison.

"The floor above. New label." Sherlock pointed to another buzzer that bore a handwritten label that read: "Wintle."

"Could have just replaced it," John suggested.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer and muttered to John over his shoulder. "No-one ever does that."

There was a small pause, and then a woman's voice sounded on the intercom.

"Hello?"

Sherlock faced the camera and smiled. He appeared surprisingly genuine in that moment. "Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I- I don't think we've met."

A stammer and everything. He really did sound like a completely normal and harmless man.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," the woman replied.

Sherlock threw a brief glance at John that was nothing but smug before he returned his attention back to the camera. "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," he said before grimacing and biting his lip.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?" the woman offered.

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?" Sherlock's voice betrayed just a touch of his actual self with his last sentence; it was hinted with a demand rather than a request.

The woman, clearly taken aback, could only respond with, "What?"

* * *

"Truth be told, wasn't expecting you to find a body," I admitted not but thirty minutes later.

Sherlock gave a small gesture with his head that confessed he hadn't either.

A photographer was busy snapping photos of Edward Van Coon's deceased shell that laid on his bed. There was a bullet wound in his right temple and a pistol rested a few millimeters from his limp hand. Apparent suicide, but I was willing to bet all of my drawing pencils it wasn't. Some forensics officers were dusting random surfaces for fingerprints throughout the flat. Sherlock began to pull on some latex gloves, clearly intent on diving in the crime scene he'd discovered after climbing down from Ms. Wintle's balcony and onto Van Coon's.

"D'you think he lost a _lot_ of money?" John suggested. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys."

"Not likely," I said before I could stop myself.

John shot me surprised look.

"Max is right, we don't know that it _was_ a suicide," Sherlock said.

"Come on," John said. "The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony."

Sherlock crouched down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed and opened the lid. He peered at the contents. "Been away three days, judging by the laundry."

I began to stride carefully around the room, careful not to disturb any of the officers; I didn't want Lestrade getting angry with me. I examined the random bits and bobbles on the tables. There was a notepad with the pen sitting on the left side of it. I wondered vaguely about trying the pencil sketching trick I'd seen on crime shows to see if I could pull up the last thing that was written on it, but the I noticed the notepad seemed brand new. The first sheet still had a small barcode near the bottom.

In the extravagantly decorated living room, there was a coffee mug sitting on the table by the couch. Its handle was turned to the left and sat on the left side of the table's surface. I began to frown.

"Look at the case," Sherlock was saying back in the bedroom. "There was something rightly packed inside."

"Thanks—I'll take your word for it," John said.

"Problem?" Sherlock straightened and frowned at him.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear," John snapped.

Sherlock turned and began to head toward the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank- the graffiti. Why were they put there?"

"What, some sort of code?" John suggested.

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

The detective was examining Van Coon's legs and shoes when I returned fully into the bedroom.

"He's left-handed," I supplied.

Sherlock blinked and looked up at me. "What?"

"Left-handed," I repeated and gestured to the dead man on the bed. "Pen is to the left of his notepad, coffee mug's handle is tot he left on on the left side of the table- oh." I pointed at the outlets in the room. "And he uses the left outlets primarily."

Sherlock followed my finger and then slowly nodded. He seemed pleasantly surprised; impressed even.

"Very good, Max," he murmured. "How could someone who's left-handed shoot themselves with their right hand?"

"Could be ambidextrous like Maddie," John said.

"No, I tend to mix," I said. "There's nothing in the flat I've seen so far that suggests he used his right hand. Pulling the trigger of a gun... that takes a little bit of doing with a non-dominant hand. But back to the messages- what were you saying, Sherlock?"

"Why were they painted?" Sherlock asked. "If you want to communicate, why not use email?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggested.

"Oh good. You follow," Sherlock murmured. I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"No," John replied.

"What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" Sherlock said.

John frowned in confusion as I contemplated sitting on the bed.

"What about this morning- those letters you were looking at?" Sherlock pressed.

John shot me a wary glance and swallowed. "Bills."

All this time, Sherlock had been carefully running his gloves hands around Van Coon; checking his pockets, examining his hands, his jacket. Now, he'd reached the man's face and very gently pried open Van Coon's mouth. He reached in and pulled out a small black origami flower from inside. I could hear the air hiss out of the corpse's lungs.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "He was being threatened."

"Bag this up, will you?" a man's voice floated in from outside the room.

Incidentally, Sherlock was lifting an evidence bag of his own and placing the black flower inside. John and I peered at it.

"Not by the gas board," John replied to Sherlock's earlier statement.

"...and see if you can get prints off this glass." The same man's voice grew louder and in stepped a plainly-clothed officer. He was young and bore shortly-cropped brown hair and a clean-shaven face.

"Ah, Sergeant," Sherlock said. "We haven't met."

However, when the detective stretched out his hand to shake, the officer placed his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, I know who you are, and I prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," he snapped.

Sherlock lowered his hand and instead offered the evidence bag with the flower. The Sergeant took it and eyed each of us in the room with clear distaste.

"I've phoned Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Is he on his way?"

Sherlock wasn't the only one missing the Detective Inspector. This guy made Lestrade seem like a ray of sunshine.

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock," the officer barked.

Sherlock's brows shot up and he exchanged a surprised look with John and me. I knew that the man was probably only a few years younger than me, but his face still held an adolescent roundness that made it seem like he could be in the schoolyard. How was someone so young carrying the same title as Lestrade?

Back in the other room a few minutes later, the officers had gathered and Dimmock addressed all of us.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," he said.

"Wrong," Sherlock instantly interjected. "You've got the solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock prompted tightly.

Sherlock took off his latex gloves. "The wound was on the right side of his head."

"And?" Dimmock said.

"Van Coon was left-handed," Sherlock said, shooting me a small smile. He began to mime trying to shoot himself on the right side of his head with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Admittedly, I wasn't the first one to notice, Max was," Sherlock said, nodding toward me. "But in all honestly, all you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you covered it," John said, his voice holding a hint of exhaustion.

"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock said.

John merely nodded in defeat.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." Sherlock turned to Dimmock, his expression tight with impatience. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head."

Well, Sherlock had certainly noticed more things than me that proved Van Coon's dominate hand. All the same, I was slightly proud when he shot me another approving glance.

"Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun, why..." Dimmock began.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened," Sherlock interrupted.

"What?" Dimmock blinked with bewilderment.

"Today at the bank," I explained. "Van Coon works there. A warning was left for him."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock said.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock prompted.

"Went through the open window," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, come on!" Dimmock exclaimed. "What are the chances of that?"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it," Sherlock vowed.

"But his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock demanded.

Sherlock began pulling on his winter gloves. "Good! You're finally asking the right questions," he sneered before striding out of the flat.

"Nice to meet you," I said awkwardly before turning and following Sherlock out, John at my side.

* * *

"Max, how good at you at improvising?"

Sherlock's question honestly took me off guard. We were in a cab heading for the restaurant Sebastian Wilkes was currently eating at. He hadn't been at the bank, and it only took the detective a few quick questions to figure out where he'd gone.

In the back of the taxi, I was once again in the middle with Sherlock to my right and John to my left. Both my brother and I peered at Sherlock suspiciously.

"Why?" we asked in unison.

"You two really have to stop doing that," Sherlock said with a small shake of his head that was almost akin to a shudder. "It really is quite creepy."

"Why d'you want to know how I am at improvising?" I pressed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Thanks to your brother, we have an act to sell. I just want to know if you wanted to practice or if you were competent at making things up as you go."

"So, am I a plotter or a pantser?" I said.

Now it was time for me to be frowned at.

"What?" John and Sherlock said at the same time.

"See? Now it's spreading." I gave a small smile at Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes then stared at me, his green gaze demanding answers.

"A plotter plots their stories," I explained. "A pantser writes by the seat of their pants. Um, on the fly, if you will."

"Fascinating, but it does nothing to answer my question," Sherlock said, his expression irritated.

"I'm ambidextrous, remember?" I elbowed him. "I am adept at both."

"Well, good then, this should be easy." The detective looked out the window and began to grin.

"What exactly are you planning?" John pressed. "Because act or not- you touch my sister in any unorthodox manner-"

"Yes, the big brother soldier will shoot me where I stand." Sherlock emphasized the last consonant of the last word with a sharp click of his tongue.

John glared at Sherlock for a moment longer before leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. "I still don't know what I was thinking."

"That's all right, neither do we," I assured him with a pat on his knee.

When we reached the restaurant, Sherlock made quick work of the hostess by flashing a copy of Lestrade's badge and storming across the dining floor toward Sebastian's table. The businessman was with a number of other people at a large table eating lunch. As we approached, I could hear Sebastian laughing.

"...and he's left trying to sort out his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" he crowed.

Sherlock stepped to Sebastian's side and cut in without even bothering with a greeting.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant."

Sebastian, clearly taken aback and insulted by the intrusion, looked up at Sherlock with annoyance. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock pressed. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders- someone who worked in your office- was killed."

Sebastian's face drained of color. "What?"

"Van Coon," John said. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" Sebastian echoed and his fork clattered on his plate as if fell from his now limp hand.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock said insincerely. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

Sebastian nervously ran a finger on the inside of his shirt collar. That would be a no. He began to stand. "Ma apologies. As you can see, something urgent has come up."

Sherlock was already marching away. John and I hurried to follow him, Sebastian just behind us. The detective led us to the restrooms. Without hesitation, he opened the men's room and began to duck in.

"Um! Sherlock!" John protested. "What about Maddie?"

Sherlock glanced back and eyed me for a moment. Then, he leaned into the restroom and called, "Cleaning!"

There was no response.

"See?" He said and with a somewhat devilish smirk, he reached out and gripped my hand to pull me in behind him.

I heard John sigh softly and he and Sebastian followed.

Once inside the restroom, Sherlock took the liberty of gripping my waist and hoisting me up onto the counter by the sinks so I could sit. I wondered if this was how he imagined a gentleman would act; truth be told, aside from cliches in fiction, I wasn't certain if he was wrong.

Sebastian eyed the two of us as Sherlock leaned on the counter next to my legs. I was tempted to laugh at how smug he looked, though to his credit, he wasn't smirking anymore.

"So... Edward Van Coon..." Sebastian sighed and turned on one of the far sinks and began to wash his hands. He was clearly experiencing a number of emotions in that moment; shock and slight grief about Van Coon, and irritation and only mildly disguised jealousy at Sherlock's actions with me. "Harrow; Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so..."

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John guessed.

Sebastian turned off the water and began to dry his hands on a towel. "Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?" John asked.

"We all make enemies," Sebastian replied.

"You don't all end up dead with a bullet in your head," I pointed out. I glanced toward Sherlock's head of dark curls and found I had the perfect opportunity to mess with them without worry or repercussion. I gently ran my fingers into his hair; it was soft as silk. To his credit, Sherlock didn't even blink at my touch.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the detective and me for a few heartbeats and then shook his head. "Not usually." A beep suddenly sounded; a text alert from his mobile. Sebastian pulled it from his pocket. "'scuse me."

As Sebastian read his message, Sherlock rested a hand on my knee. I saw John give a sharp look behind Sebastian's back, but clearly the detective was more intent on irritating his former classmate than keeping John calm.

"It's my Chairman," Sebastian said. "The police have been on to him. Apparently, they're telling him it was a suicide."

Sherlock's hand fell from my knee and he took a step forward, leaving my hand to slip out of his hair. "Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered."

Sebastian glanced up and for a brief second his eyes darted between me and Sherlock. Then in a clipped tone, he said, "Well, I'm afraid they don'e see it like that."

"Seb," Sherlock pressed.

"...and neither does my boss," Sebastian added. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, John turned toward Sherlock.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," he said.

"Seems you're on the right track there," I replied as I hopped down from the counter. I glanced at Sherlock. "What conditioner do you use?"

Sherlock was clearly too annoyed by Sebastian's actions to humor me with a response. Without another word, he strode out of the restroom.

* * *

 _John_

"Just locum work."

Doctor Sarah Sawyer looked up at me from the papers in her hand. I was sitting opposite her within her doctor's surgery. A few days had passed since my trip to the bank with Sherlock and Maxine and now I was following up with getting the job I so desperately needed to keep up with my side of the bills. Army's pension was not cutting it in the least.

"No, that's fine," I assured Sarah. She was certainly pretty, I noted. Long brown hair, fair complexion, amber-toned eyes. I had to keep myself from staring at her lips.

"You're um... well, you're a bit over-qualified," Sarah pointed out.

I smiled. "Er, I could always do with the money."

"Well, we've got two away on holiday this week and one's just left to have a baby. Might be a bit mundane for you."

"Er, no; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works," I assured her. Lord knew I could do with some normalcy after all my time with Sherlock Holmes.

"It says here you were a soldier," Sarah noted softly, eyeing the papers again.

"And a doctor," I said and smiled again.

Sarah glanced down and I could have sworn I saw a slight hint of pink in her cheeks. "Anything else you can do?" she asked.

"I learned clarinet at school," I offered.

"Oh!" Sarah laughed a bit. "Well, I look forward to it."

I laughed too and she smiled at me; smiled like she honestly _did_ look forward to it. To me.

On the way back to the flat, I took out my mobile to see I'd gotten an hour ago. It was from Maxine and merely read: _Creativity alert._ It was a message that I'd come to understand as her way of telling me to stay away from her room and not to disturb her unless someone was dying. I'd taken to this rule rather quickly; Sherlock, on the other hand, had to learn the hard way that messing with Maxine while she was trying to draw or write was like poking a sleeping bear.

"She _threw_ her sharpener at me," Sherlock had complained as he came trotting down the stairs back into the living room. The mentioned sharpener was in his hand and there was a bleeding scratch on his forehead. "And she's got good aim."

"I warned you," I had told him while not bothering to look up from the newspaper.

It was rather amusing how alike and yet how different Sherlock and Maxine were. Both eccentric, both intelligent, both socially awkward. Yet while Maxine went out of her way to be polite and gentle with others, it seemed Sherlock didn't have the capacity to worry about such things. She was creative, he was logical. While Maxine could observe colors and textures and different varieties of landscapes with the critical eye of an artist, Sherlock could observe several minute details of just about everything with the critical eye of a machine.

Maxine took in the world and produced art. Sherlock took in data and produced answers.

Then there was me, who was somewhere in between all of that.

I couldn't draw worth anything, but I could look at a dead body and be able to tell what was the most probable cause of death within a few minutes. I could tell how long it had been dead for. I could guess how people would typically act, sometimes even better than Maxine and Sherlock because I understood empathy.

They didn't.

A high functioning sociopath, that's what Sherlock called himself. It seems with that, I finally understood what was wrong with my sister. Of course, saying it was _wrong_ seemed... well, wrong. Maxine, while off and distant from other people, was a good person, and I knew on some level she cared about others. But she'd never made friends easy, she'd always been bored.

Ever since we moved in with Sherlock, I'd seen her mood increase beyond what I've ever seen it at. Despite how dangerous Sherlock's lifestyle was, it seemed to be the best thing for her.

Yet even with all this in mind, I couldn't get the image of Sherlock's hand on my sister's knee out of my mind.

It seemed silly; after all, it was all just an act to get at Sebastian. Sherlock had lost all interest in Maxine when Sebastian started to refuse listening to him about the murder of Van Coon. I supposed it had to be me just being overprotective of her. After all, Maxine had never dated; she found boys and girls both to be boring and dating in general was a waste of time. She refused to conform to the song and dance of it.

Perhaps I'd been spoiled by the fact that Maxine didn't want to date; I'd grown comfortable and complacent about it. The thing was, Maxine was more fragile than most people realized. She thrived for excitement and danger, but at the same time conflict wasn't something she handled well. Most of the time, she just runs away from it. How could someone who refuses to acknowledge conflict survive a romantic relationship? Would it break her if she tried?

I decided to shove the thoughts away as I entered 221B Baker Street and climbed the stairs up to our flat. Sherlock was sitting in one of the dining chairs with his back facing the table so he could stare out into the living room. With a small glance, I saw he'd put photos of the graffiti in the bank on the mirror over the fireplace. I tossed my jacket into my favored armchair and loosed a long sigh.

"I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock suddenly said.

I blinked and glanced around to see if Maxine was down here, but clearly Sherlock was speaking to me. "What? When?"

"'bout an hour ago," Sherlock said.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then," I sighed. "You could have asked Maddie."

" _Creativity time_ ," Sherlock said the words as if they tasted sour on his lips. "She's incorrigible when she's just up there doodling."

"It _is_ her job," I reminded him.

"Job or not, I don't chuck things at people when they disturb me," Sherlock said.

"Not ever?" I raised a disbelieving brow as I snatched a pen from the table beside the chair and tossed it to him.

The detective caught it easily and tore his gaze from the mirror. "Okay, Anderson, but only twice and only one of the times was it a sharp object."

I grunted with amusement. "Well, I went to see about that job at the surgery."

"How was it?" Sherlock prompted.

"It was great," I said, fondly remembering Sarah. "She's great."

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"The job," I answered, suddenly aware of exactly what I just said.

"'She?'" Sherlock repeated curiously.

"...It," I corrected after a moment.

Sherlock eyed me suspiciously for a second before jerking his head in a beckoning gesture. "Here, have a look."

"Hmm?" I walked over to the table and saw he had the laptop open. I peered at the webpage that was displayed with a frown. "'Ghost killer leaves a mystery for police," I read.

Beside the article was a photograph of a bald man in his forties I'd guess. The rest of the article read: _An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in..._

"The 'intruder who can walk through walls.'" I quoted softly.

"Happened last night," Sherlock said. "Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside- exactly the same as Van Coon."

I slowly straightened up and stared at the detective. "God. You think..."

"He's killed another one," Sherlock confirmed.

At that moment, there was some thumping coming from the floor above and then from the stairs. Sherlock and I turned to see Maxine plunking down the steps rather heavily. Her face looked drained and there were smudges of graphite on her hands, nose, and part of her left jawline.

"Tea," she mumbled as she stalked into the kitchen.

"New manga issue due?" I guessed.

"Mm..." was all Maxine replied with.

Maxine had a slight problem with procrastination. She tended to wait until the last second with her work projects before starting them. She'd been in creative mode for nearly four days in a row now, which meant she couldn't have a lot of sleep in her system.

"Max, if you need a break to regroup your thoughts, how does a trip to Scotland Yard sound?" Sherlock closed his laptop and hopped out of his seat.

"Is that Dimmock fellow still heading the case?" Maxine muttered sleepily.

"I haven't heard from Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Ugh." Maxine was pouring water into the kettle. "Dunno if I have the patience for him."

"Maddie, you're wearing yourself thin," I told her. "You need to step back from it."

Maxine's eyes remained fixated on the kettle. "Right. After my tea, though."

I glanced as Sherlock and gestured slightly with my head indicating for him to follow me out into the living room. He picked up on the hint and the two of us went over toward the couch.

"This might not be a good idea," I whispered.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, equally as hushed.

"Because she's barely had sleep, she's in the middle of a huge creative push, and she doesn't like Dimmock." I listed the things off on my fingers.

Sherlock raised a brow curiously. "So, you think she might- what- snap or something?"

I grimaced.

"Hold on, back at the bank, you seemed surprised by how stern she was with Sebastian," Sherlock said. "It doesn't seem like her getting angry is a normal thing."

"It isn't," I said. "Well—not verbally. You've seen how she can get physically." I touched his forehead where the scratch had already healed. "Anyway, that's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what _are_ you worried about?"

"Maddie's barely speaking now, but once she has caffeine in her system, she'll find her voice and _she—won't—stop_." I said each of the last three words with heavy emphasis.

"I'm still not following."

"She'll lose her filter—y'know, the one she barely has. It'll be gone. She'll speak her mind and be oblivious as to how it affects those around her."

"So, what do you suggest, we leave her here to keep building whatever this is up?" Sherlock tilted his head at me.

"I—no, probably not—" I began.

Sherlock gave me a brief smile before raising his voice and calling into the kitchen. "Max, I'll have a cup too, if you don't mind.

I groaned and plopped down on the couch.


	13. The Blind Baker, Part 3

_Maxine_

I stood behind Sherlock and John with a hot cup of coffee in my hands. The tea hadn't been quite enough to wake my foggy mind fully, so when I saw the coffee machine in the Scotland Yard break room, I snatched up the first cup I could find and poured myself some.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat..." Sherlock was saying as he typed into the laptop on the desk. Once he found the site, he flipped it around to show it to Dimmock who sat on the other side. "...doors locked from the inside."

"You've gotta admit, it's similar," John said.

I took a noisy sip of my coffee which earned me a scowl from Dimmock. I smiled back at him and he shook his head and looked at the computer.

"Both men killed by someone who can..." John hesitated for a moment, shaking his head in slight disbelief, "...walk through walls."

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock pressed.

"If he does, he's a moron," I said.

Dimmock's eyes latched onto mine again, ignited with annoyance. "I'm sorry, is that one of _my_ mugs?"

"Amazing, you can deduce that, but you can't solve a simple crime," I muttered before taking another loud sip.

"Maddie, please," John sighed.

"You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Sherlock said to Dimmock.

Dimmock gave a tight nod. "Mmm."

"And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock queried.

"No," Dimmock admitted reluctantly.

"No," Sherlock echoed. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

"Or if you just get some common sense," I added.

Sherlock glanced at John. "I dunno what you were worried about, I like her like this," he said.

"Like me like what?" I asked, frowning.

"Nothing, Maddie, just-just drink your coffee," John said.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Dimmock and leaned over the desk to hover his face in the Detective Inspector's. "I've just handed you a murder enquiry," he said in a quiet, but intense voice. He nodded toward the laptop where a picture of Lukis was still displayed. "Five minutes in his flat."

* * *

Lukis' flat turned out to be on the fourth floor of his building. Inside the living room laid an open, empty suitcase on the floor and sitting close to it was a neat little black origami flower—just like the one Sherlock found inside Van Coon's mouth. There were books everywhere; the desk, the bookshelves, even scattered about the floor. Several open newspapers were accompanying them on the carpet.

Sherlock strode into the kitchen area and peered through the window at the nearby rooftops of the lower buildings. He pushed back the net curtain for a better look and smirked.

"Four floors up. _That's_ why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable," he said before striding back into the living room. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in." The detective then turned his back to the stairs we climbed to get here and stared up at the skylight above the landing.

"I don't understand," Dimmock said.

"You rarely do," I told him.

He shot me a glare. "I'm sorry, did I _do_ something to you? Or are you just naturally this bitter to everyone?"

"Only after she's been up for four days," John said.

"His idiocy has nothing to do with my sleep deprivation," I said with a shake of my head. I looked up at the skylight. "It matches up with the bank and with Van Coon. Both of those places were high up and had balconies. The killer can climb."

"Exactly, Max," Sherlock breathed as stepped out onto the landing and grabbed a nearby step stool. He hopped up onto it in order to get a closer view of the skylight. It was high up on the angled room, but not out of reach for Sherlock's long arms.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock demanded.

"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock said. He then unhooked the latch on the window and pushed it upwards.

It opened freely.

"That's how he got in," Sherlock said softly.

"What?!" Dimmock exclaimed.

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight," Sherlock summarized.

"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?!" Dimmock was clearly both agitated and bewildered.

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon," Sherlock said.

Dimmock began laughing in disbelief. "Oh, ho-hold on!"

"And, of course, that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Sherlock stepped down and pushed the stool back in its place with his foot while still staring up at the skylight. "We have to find out what connects these two men."

"After another coffee," I mumbled, leaning on the doorframe.

"What you _need_ is sleep," John said.

I shook my head. "Nah. Just a small break, like this. It's fine—I'm fine."

Sherlock suddenly hopped down a few stairs where some more books were piled. There was one that had fallen open at its front page and displayed that it had been borrowed from West Kensington Library. I spotted the text just before Sherlock snapped it shut and picked it up before heading down the stairs.

"Now what?" John groaned.

"The library," I said with a small smile. Most libraries had cafes.

The scent of books had always soothed me. I breathed deeply as I followed Sherlock and John through the aisles. Yes; ink and paper, there truly was no better combination. Sherlock quickly found where the book from Lukis' flat came from.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day he died," the detective said.

He checked the reference number on the book's spine and found the correct place on the shelves. He began to pull some books out and examined them. John did the same behind him across the aisle. I, meanwhile, was still annoyed that I didn't have any coffee. I really was on my last leg; my next volume's draft was due the end of this week and I didn't have nearly enough panels done. My editor was going to kill me.

"You could help, Maddie," John said.

"Like me helping would make a difference," I grumbled. "What, you think I'll just happen to pull the right books off the shelf?" I turned and gripped a handful of them by the spine. "Here, look, I'm helping." I pulled then down and blinked in astonishment at what I saw behind the books and against the back of the shelf was yellow paint.

"Sherlock..." John said weakly, gesturing toward my incredibly lucky discovery.

Sherlock turned and spotted what I'd found. He took one long step across the aisle and reached over me to grab a handful of books. His fingers were so long he was able to easily grip enough to cover the width of a man's head. Awkwardly trapped between Sherlock and the bookshelf, I elected to just take the books he passed down to me and then pass them to John who set them on the floor.

The detective finally paused with his book pulling. My nose was a millimeter from his chest and If I leaned forward just a tiny bit, I could give his collarbone butterfly kisses.

"For the record, I could have just stepped aside," I said.

Sherlock seemed to just notice our position. He blinked and then gripped my shoulders, lifted me up, and placed me to the side.

"There," he said, then gestured to what he'd uncovered. "Now look at what you stumbled upon."

John was shaking his head at us; I just counted it lucky he wasn't upset about that encounter. I looked at the bookshelf. On the wood behind the books were the same two symbols we saw in Sir William Shad's office.

"Same paint," I noted, reaching up and running a finger across the surface as Sherlock pulled out his mobile to take a photograph. "Mm, zinc. Dunno the brand though. One thing we know—our artist isn't out for quality. Just wants something that won't corrode metal and get the, uh, _message_ across."

"So zinc paint is cheap," John clarified.

"Yeah," I said with a small nod.

"Mm..." Sherlock took a few more pictures and then pocketed his phone. "We got what we need here. C'mon."

I began to follow the detective as he made to leave.

"Guys!" John called. "The books? That you left? On the floor?"

Sherlock glanced back. "That's what the librarian is for."

John let out an exacerbated sigh and stooped to start collecting the books. "It's _called_ common curtesy."

"It's _called_ the librarian's job," Sherlock corrected, though after a moment he squatted down and began gathering books.

I closed my eyes for a moment, reveling in just how damned tired I was, then crouched and grabbed a couple of books to help. "I'm not putting them in order," I grumbled.

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock printed out the photos he took at the library and added them to the mirror. He had Van Coon's photo and the graffiti from the bank up there as well. Sherlock and John stared at the pictures while I put another kettle of tea on the stove, blinking my eyes blearily.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies," Sherlock summarized.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home," John said.

"Late that night, he dies too," Sherlock murmured.

" _Why_ did they die, Sherlock?" John breathed.

Sherlock ran a finger over the line painted across Sir William's eyes. "Only the cipher can tell us." He began to tap the photo and as I turned to look at him, I noticed his green eyes sharpen in the mirror.

"Idea?" I guessed.

"Idea," he confirmed.

"We're going out again, aren't we?" I sighed.

Sherlock responded with grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and heading for the door. John glanced at me.

"You could stay here," he offered. "Take a nap."

I narrowed my eyes at my brother as I shut off the stove and moved the kettle to a cold spot on its surface.

"Right, dunno what I was thinking," he said with a defeated shake of his head.

We ended up heading to Trafalgar Square. Sherlock led us through its center toward the National Gallery. I had another hot coffee in my hands and the caffeine was actually working quite well. My stride was swift as I made my way across the pavement, Sherlock on my left and John to my right.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, Watsons," Sherlock said. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine John took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes, okay, but..." John prompted.

"... _but_ it's all computer-generated," Sherlock finished. "Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

I found myself wondering if Miyako would be able to help with our current situation. With her background, I wouldn't be surprised if cracking this "ancient" code would be child's play for her. Part of me wanted to email her, but I already knew that Sherlock would want to know who Miyako was; and then he'd want to know more.

"Where are we headed?" John queried.

Sherlock grimaced. "I need to ask some advice."

I nearly choked while I sipped my coffee.

"What?! Sorry?!" John exclaimed, smiling in disbelief at the detective.

Sherlock shot him a dark glare. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice?" John pressed.

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert," Sherlock confessed.

I slowly began to raise my hand but Sherlock waved me off.

"Don't get sulky," he said. "This isn't you're area."

We neared the entrance to the National Gallery and I expected to start scaling the stares to head inside, but Sherlock walked straight on by it and led us around to the rear corner of the building. There was a young man standing before a large metal door and there was a spray can in his hand and a duffle bag full of many more at his feet. On the door an image was already stenciled: a policeman holding a rifle in his hands with a pig's snout for a nose and beneath it was a clear tag that said RAZ.

The man—Raz, I guessed—didn't even pause in adding the finishing touches to his piece as we approached. When we paused beside him, he glanced toward Sherlock.

"Part of a new exhibition," he declared, gesturing to his work.

"Interesting," Sherlock said without any actual hint of interest.

"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," Raz said with a chuckle.

"Catchy!" John said with a humorless smile.

"Unoriginal," I muttered before I could stop myself.

Raz's eyes narrowed toward me. "Sorry?"

"Maxine," John said sharply.

"Er..." I took a sip of my coffee as I shrugged. When I swallowed my mouthful, I gestured weakly toward the art. "Police. Pigs. Sorry, just... uh, I've seen it before. Maybe something more punchy?"

"Punchy?" Raz repeated with a small level of bewilderment. He shook his head and went back to spraying. To Sherlock, he said, "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Office comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

Sherlock took out his mobile after shooting me a warning glance that told me to stop talking for the rest of this exchange. When the detective offered it to Raz, the graffiti artist tossed John his spray can at John, who instinctively caught it. Raz took Sherlock's phone and began to scroll through the photographs of the yellow paint.

"Know the author?" Sherlock prompted.

"Recognize the paint," Raz said. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

I grinned slightly with triumph. At least I'd caught on to something.

"What about the symbols: d'you recognize them?" Sherlock asked.

Raz squinted at the pictures. "Not even sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them," Sherlock said.

"No pressure," I added.

Sherlock locked me in another glare and I raised my hands in surrender to show him I'd shut up.

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz asked. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock's green eyes went back to Raz.

"I'll ask round," Raz vowed.

"Oi!"

Startled, we all looked down the street to see two Community Support Officers running toward them. A hand suddenly clasped around mine and yanked me along. I dropped my coffee; it's contents spilt out across the pavement as I managed to get my feet under me and began to run properly. I turned my head, expecting to see John pulling me down the street, but to my surprise, it was Sherlock.

The detective's eyes were alight with mischief and he was hastily pocketing his mobile; I guessed he snatched it back from Raz. I looked over my shoulder to see John was still standing next to the graffiti and the officers appeared to have cornered him.

"Wait!" I cried, trying to slow our pace. "We left John!"

"Did we?" Sherlock glanced back and grimaced. "Oh. He'll be cross about that later."

"We gotta go back!" I insisted.

"Too late, sorry," Sherlock said, pulling me along. "He'll forgive us eventually."

"Sherlock!" I protested.

"Us going back there will do nothing but just get us in trouble as well," Sherlock said. "No point."

I groaned and hastened my pace to match his again. "All right, fine! But we have to stop by the market."

* * *

The slamming door was what marked John's return home. It startled me from my nap and I jerked my head up from where it had been resting on a cushion. I was curled on the sofa and my bones creaked with protest as I sat up. Sherlock was standing near the mirror above the fireplace which was now almost completely covered. He'd added sheets of various ciphers and pictograms on them.

The detective was peering down at a book in his hand and didn't bother looking up when John stormed into the room.

"You've been a while," Sherlock noted.

John stomped fully into the living room. His shoulders were rigid and his fists were clenched as he blinked rapidly, most likely doing his damnedest to hold in the rage that was boiling inside him.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John said in a clipped tone. He began to pace with a tight smile on his lips. "Just the formalities: fingerprints, charge sheer; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

Sherlock was still staring into his book. "What?" he asked offhandedly; clearly, he hadn't heard a word.

"Me, Sherlock, in court- on Tuesday," John barked. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine," was all Sherlock responded with.

John looked like he was going to pop.

I pushed myself off the couch. "John, I can go in and testify it wasn't you."

John set his irascible glare on me. "Oh yes, sure, they'll believe that coming from my sister. When they ask why you weren't there when they showed you can say to decided to just _abandon_ me instead!"

I went across the room with a sigh and a shake of my head. "I thought you were behind us," I said honestly.

"Well, I wasn't," John retorted.

"Clearly," I muttered.

I got to the table and reached into the bag I left on it. Inside, my hand closed around a round object. When I produced it I tossed it to my brother and he caught it reflexively. He peered at it for a moment before he realized what it was.

"A ch—no-no, you can't just make this up with sweets," he stammered.

"Chocolate orange," I said, leaning back against the table. "Imported."

"How much did this cost?" John said.

My brow twitched. "Am I not allowed to spend money on you even when it's an apology?" I said tightly. "If I tell you Sherlock bought it, would _that_ make it okay?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demanded.

"It means you're a _paradox,_ John," I pressed. "You refuse to let me help you financially, but you let Sherlock! Then you say I need to date but get all irate whenever I'm near a man, even our own flatmate!"

John shook his head. "You need more sleep; you never argue like this."

It was true. I normally fled from any form of verbal conflict. I'd been known to turn and walk out a room while the other person was mid-sentence. I did everything and anything I could to avoid an argument, but at the same time, I never admitted I was wrong unless it was proved such.

"I'm just trying to understand," I groaned, rubbing my brow. "I'm family, why can't you just let me help—?"

"Because _you're_ the little sister!" John suddenly erupted. " _I'm_ supposed to be supporting _you._ It's-it's _humiliating_ having you take care of me in any way. Maxine—I'm eleven years older than you! You're practically a kid!"

I blinked several times as his words sunk into my diaphragm. Even Sherlock glanced up from his book, suddenly paying attention to the conversation.

"Are you kidding?" I breathed.

John lowered his gaze and his expression softened as the weight of his words hit him. He cleared his throat and he ran his fingers over each other habitually.

"Maddie... I didn't..." he began.

I shook my head and turned around to walk toward the stairs. I thought about going up to my room but I was already frustrated with my lack of progress on my work, so instead I trotted downstairs and snatched my coat and scarf on my way out.

* * *

 _John_

I screwed up.

As I listened to Maxine slam the door behind her on her way out, I slumped against the wall and let out a defeated sigh. I hadn't meant to say it like that to her; I hadn't meant to call her a kid, but I just couldn't shake the idea that her helping me financially was... was like admitting I was useless. I pushed off the wall and headed for the door.

"John..." Sherlock said slowly as he got to his feet. "I think it might be best if you give her some space."

"She's all in a tiff and Maxine is useless around people like that," I said. "She'll get herself in trouble—"

"She survived two years in Japan without anyone else," Sherlock pointed out. "If she managed to not get in a row with someone within two years, that's impressive."

"No, you don't _get_ it," I pressed. "Sherlock, you're clever, we all know it, but you don't know Maxine. She avoids verbal conflict at all costs—you see what she just did. If anyone says something she doesn't want to hear and it bugs her enough to cause a normal person to protest, she just walks away. After a while, that kind of thing bottles up; _and_ she's had next to no sleep for four days AND she's behind in her work. The young woman that just walked out of this flat is a ticking time bomb."

Sherlock shook his head. "John—"

"I _know_ my sister!" I barked. "I need to go after her and—"

"Seeing you after that is only going to exasperate things," Sherlock said. " _I'll_ go after her. Need to go see Van Coon's P.A. anyway. I want you to go to the police station."

"Oh, Jesus!" I exclaimed. "I was _just there!_ You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time."

"I need you to ask about the journalist," Sherlock went on, completely ignoring my comment. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide."

I shook my head and ran my fingers against my thumb. I knew Sherlock was right about Maxine probably not wanting to see me, but at the same time, I was incredibly worried about him going after her. Maxine was better around people when she was in a decent mood, but when she got like this, she was just as bad as the detective—possibly worse. I already saw visions of her getting arrested for foul-mouthing an officer or something. Was Sherlock Holmes really the best influence for her mind at the moment?

However, I did realize with some astonishment that I did trust Sherlock with my sister. I knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her and ensure she got back here safely. After all, when they first met Sherlock, he'd risked his life to go and save Maxine from Jeff Hope. He hadn't even known her then and now they had a bond of friendship to encourage him to protect her.

"Fine," I conceded. "Just remember, the worse danger to her is herself—and she likes milk when she's upset."

"Milk?" Sherlock perked a brow.

"A whole pint will do her fine," I assured as I began to head toward the door. Sherlock followed after me.

"Has she always been like this?" he asked. "The walking away from arguments; the strange disassociation with other people?"

"Yeah, why?" I said as we stepped out into the street.

"Because that means this is a product of nature, not nurture," Sherlock murmured as he pulled out his mobile. "I'll find her. Go on."

I nodded and raised my hand to hail a taxi, hoping Sherlock had this covered and that Maxine would forgive what I said.

* * *

 _Maxine_

My phone was buzzing.

I paused in my irate stride down Baker Street and pulled out my mobile, expecting John's number to be glaring at me. However, to my surprise, it was Sherlock's. I frowned and tilted my head; he _never_ called—he always texted. I hit the accept button and put it to my ear.

"You don't call," I told him.

"I've never seen you storm off like that, drastic measures were necessary," Sherlock replied calmly. "Where are you?"

"Is John with you?" I asked tightly.

"Sent him on an errand," Sherlock assured. "I have one for us as well. I'd like company."

"Or John sent you," I accused.

"John wanted to come by himself—I convinced him to send me instead," Sherlock said. "You can thank me later."

"What if I don't want company?" I countered.

"Mm, sorry, can't do that," Sherlock replied. "I need to go back to the bank and I want to flaunt our relationship in Sebastian's face."

I was astonished by the amused grin that forced its way on my face.

"As far as the case goes, I want to talk to Van Coon's P.A. to get some more information," Sherlock went on. He sounded oddly out of breath. "Who knows—it might lead to something fun."

"Are you jogging?" I asked.

"What? No, not at all," Sherlock said, still breathless.

I glanced around me with a sudden jolt of realization. I was down near the Chinese restaurant and there was a worker outside offering samples. He called out to passerby with a distinct accent.

"Don't bother hanging up, I already see you," Sherlock said. "That ginger hair of yours makes you quite easy to find in a crowd."

The sound of thudding feet steadily approached and I turned around to see Sherlock pocketing his mobile as he ran toward me. When he came to a halt in front of me, he grinned widely and nodded as he caught his breath.

"Figured you might come this way," he said. "Just had to call and see if I hear Lee to make sure." He gestured toward the Chinese man calling out to passerby.

I pushed my mobile into my pocket and began to worry my scarf's yellow fabric in my fingers. "I don't want to be around anyone right now."

"So where were you planning to go in the city of London to be alone?" Sherlock raised a brow.

"I dunno—an alley maybe." I shrugged.

"An alley." Sherlock stared down at me disbelievingly.

"Someone might try to mug me," I said.

Sherlock's expression cracked into one of bewildered amusement and he laughed. "Ah, Maxine Watson, I'm still trying to understand how a young woman like you can exist. C'mon, let's go to the bank."

He turned and began to walk toward the street to hail a cab. I remained where I was and folded my arms. As a taxi pulled over and Sherlock opened the door, he finally realized I wasn't with him. He looked back at me and frowned.

"Max," he called.

"If I go with you, I have a condition," I said.

Sherlock's brows shot up. He leaned into the cab and murmured something to the cabbie; most likely asking him to wait a moment. He then trotted back to me and peered down into my face.

"A condition?" he repeated.

I nodded. "After this case is over, you're going to let me draw you."

Sherlock grimaced. "Max..."

"That's the condition," I told him. "And if you go back on it, I will annoy the _hell_ out of you for two weeks straight."

"A crude saleswoman," Sherlock muttered.

I shrugged pitilessly.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded. "C'mon, let's go."

* * *

The cab ride was a lot more comfortable without three of us squished into the backseat. I didn't even have to stretch out when we got to the bank. The moment we hit the escalator, Sherlock's demeanor toward me altered. He stood on the same step as me and rested his hand over mine on the handrail. His skin was warm and I could feel some callouses on his palm; Lord knew what they were from considering how many things Sherlock was proficient with.

"Should we try pet names?" I teased. "I could call you Sherly."

"I could call you Maddie," Sherlock countered instantly.

I pressed my lips into a tight line and he smiled victoriously at me; his face a mere inch from mine.

When we reached the top of the escalator, we saw Sebastian near the reception desk. Hearing our approach, he turned around and immediately grimaced.

"Sherlock," he greeted, attempting to force a smile. "Do you have any answers for me?"

"Just need to do some more research," Sherlock said. He casually wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me into his side as if he did it every day. "Is Van Coon's P.A. in?"

Sebastian was momentarily too distracted by Sherlock's hand on my hip to respond. He finally took a breath and lifted his eyes back up to the detective. "Yeah- Amanda. She's over by his office; the desk just outside it."

"Cheers," Sherlock said with a brief smile.

He let his arm drop from me, but his hand slid across my back slowly as if he was reluctant to let me go. Sherlock led the way toward Van Coon's office and I followed after him, not bothering to acknowledge Sebastian. I was too irate to entertain the notion of normal social behavior.

Sherlock spotted Amanda's desk and the P.A. herself appeared to be sitting behind it. She looked up from her computer at our approach. Her blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun and she wore a white blouse. Her face was smooth and rather pretty with a delicate nose and big eyes of blue.

"Hello, how can I help you?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced. "This is my... partner, Maxine Watson."

Partner, huh? Was Sherlock too dedicated to our dating ruse that he wanted to say something heavier than "friend" but nothing as solid as "girlfriend?" Interesting. I couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock would act if he _was_ dating someone. He'd told John he was married to his work when there was the confusion about John asking him about his dating life, but what if whoever was with him was doing the work too?

It was an odd thought; one I wasn't certain of the origin.

"I was hoping you could assist us with looking at Van Coon's schedule and files," Sherlock said. "We're investigating his death."

"Ah, yes, the office got a memo about you," Amanda replied. "Mr. Wilkes already gave us the go ahead to help you with anything you need. I'll get into his computer for you."

Amanda logged into her computer and pulled up Van Coon's online calendar.

"Flew back from Dalian Friday," she said. "Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me a copy?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure," Amanda agreed.

"What about the day he died?" Sherlock pressed. "Can you tell me where he was?"

Amanda peered at the screen with a frown. "Sorry. Bit of a gap."

I leaned over to see the calendar showed no entires for Monday at all. Sherlock adverted his eyes with a small touch of frustration.

"I have all his receipts," Amanda suddenly offered.

"That sounds useful," I said.

A few minutes later, Amanda had Van Coon's schedule and receipts printed out for us. As she spread them out across the desk, Sherlock peered at her desk with a critical eye.

"What kind of boss was he, Amanda?" the detective asked. "Appreciative?"

Amanda considered. "Um, no. That's not the word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

Sherlock kneeled down on the floor to better look at the receipts. As he pulled off his gloves, his green eyes locked onto something on the desk. Following his gaze, I saw it was a pump-action bottle of luxury lotion sitting toward the back.

"Like that hand cream," Sherlock said. " _He_ bought it for you, didn't he?"

Amanda fiddled with a pin in her hair anxiously as she shot Sherlock a surprised look. I perked a brow as I scanned the desk, wondering how Sherlock deduced that one. The detective merely continued to shuffle through the paperwork. He picked out one of the receipts: one from a licensed taxi dated 3/22/2010 and timed at 10:35. The cost listed was £18.50.

"Look at this one," he prompted. "Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office," Amanda noted.

"But why would he be coming here at that time?" I asked.

"Not rush hour," Sherlock murmured. "Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as..."

"The West End," Amanda said. "I remember him saying."

Sherlock pulled out the next receipt of a London Underground ticket with the same date on it. "Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly," he said.

"So he took a taxi into town and took the Tube back?" I frowned. "Seems odd."

"He was delivering something heavy," Sherlock said. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."

"The space in his suitcase," I murmured and Sherlock nodded.

"Delivering?" Amanda repeated.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," Sherlock explained. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." He pulled out another receipt with the same date as the other two. "...stopped on his way. He got peckish."

I saw the newest receipt was for Pizza Express Bar Italiano.

"So we need to figure out where the cab dropped him off," I said. "It has to be close to the pizza place."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, that's right—let's see if we can figure out anything more. Max, go on, take a look too."

I obliged and we scoured over a few more things for the next fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, we couldn't find anything of substantial use besides what we'd already uncovered. So, with that we bid Amanda farewell and headed out of the bank to head for the pizza place.

We found it with relative ease and as we walked by its front, Sherlock spoke, but it seemed more like he was talking to himself.

"So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed _from?_ Where did the taxi drop you...?" The detective rotated as he moved, staring at all of our surroundings with his expression pinched in concentration.

I paused and stared across the street when something bright red caught my attention. There was a shop standing at the front of Chinatown; the majority of its front decor was scarlet banners with golden lettering. It looked like a tourist shop: the kind that sold little charms, tea sets, and the cats with waving paws. A bold sign above the door declared the shop as The Lucky Cat.

"Van Coon was the head of the Hong Kong side of things at the bank," I breathed. "Sherlock!"

As I turned around, I accidentally bumped right into the detective who had still been spinning around, but not only him: a third bystander collided with us and all three of us stepped back to blink at one another.

The third person was none other than my brother, John. He blinked rapidly, clearly surprised to see us. There was a book in his hand and I guessed his nose was in it when he bumped into us. Once John recovered from the initial shock, he pursed his lips and his gaze toward me grew a bit more awkward.

All at once I recalled what he said to be back at the flat.

"Right," John said with a tight nod.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died—whatever was hidden inside that case," Sherlock said quickly; he seemed to have recovered from the surprise fast as well and didn't sense the strain between my brother and I in his excitement. "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information."

"Sherlock," John tried, but Sherlock was too caught up in his own words.

"Credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock," John pressed again.

"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but..." Sherlock said enthusiastically.

At the exact same time, John and I pointed across the street to the red-decorated shop, and said, "That shop over there."

The three of us all paused and stared at one another in turn, all surprised for different reasons.

"Even in the heat of an argument, you two still do that," Sherlock muttered. "How can you tell?"

"Lukis' diary," John explained, holding up the book. "He was here too. He wrote down the address."

"And you?" Sherlock shot his green eyes at me.

"Van Coon had just come back from China, he's the head of the Hong Kong side at the bank, and there's a shop that sells Chinese goods across the street from the place he stopped by for food," I said. "I dunno, seems obvious?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his jaw slackened a bit. He looked between me and the shop.

"It _is_ obvious," he muttered irritably. "Why didn't I see that?"

I began to head across the street, not wanting to give John a chance to try and talk to me. He and Sherlock followed after me silently.

The interior of the shop was stuffy and the shelves holding goods were claustrophobically close to one another. I gingerly stepped through the aisles, fearing one wrong step would send everything toppling. The shelves held a wide array of trinkets and decorations. I saw a whole row of those waving cats.

"Hello," John greeted the shopkeeper politely.

The woman behind the counter smiled toward him and lifted one of the waving cats off the desk.

"You want lucky cat?" she prompted.

"No, thanks. No," John replied with an awkward smile.

Sherlock smirked toward him.

"Ten pound. Ten pound!" the shop keeper urged.

"No," John repeated.

"I think your wife, she will like!" The woman gestured toward me.

"Oh—no, no—that's my sister," John said quickly. "Er, really, no thank you."

The shop keeper finally backed down; either from John's continued refusal or the venomous look I shot toward him when he tried to smile at me. The three of us began to poke around the items in the shop. Sherlock examined some clay statues while I peered at some of the mobile phone charms. John found the tea sets and picked up one of the small, handle-less cups. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand began to tremble.

"Sherlock, Maddie," he murmured.

Both of us headed over to him. My anger toward him was momentarily forgotten when I saw the price tag pressed to the bottom of the cup. It looked eerily like the strange 8 symbol we'd seen in the bank and library.

"The label there," John said.

"Yes, I see it," Sherlock replied.

"Exactly the same as the cipher," John breathed.

Spotting the shop keeper peering at us, John cleared his throat nervously and put the cup back. Sherlock lifted his head up, his pale green eyes staring off into the distance with abrupt realization.

"We're done here," he said softly. "C'mon."

The detective weaved through the aisles and out of the shop. John nodded apologetically to the shop keeper as the two of us followed after him. Back out in the street, we caught up to Sherlock who was striding down the walkway with purpose.

"It's an ancient number system! Hangzhou," he explained. "These days, only the street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library."

Sherlock walked to a greengrocer's which had some of its wares on display outside the shop. The various boxes had handwritten signs on them giving the names of the vegetables in both Chinese and English. Beneath that was the cost of the item in both the Hangzhou Sherlock spoke of and English. Sherlock picked over the signs, peering closely at the symbols.

"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect," he said.

My mind began churning. Numbers... why numbers? If this was a code, then perhaps each number meant something.

"It's a fifteen!" John suddenly exclaimed. He gestured to the symbol on the sign closest to him. It bore the strange 8 and the horizontal slash above it. "The artist's tag—it's a number fifteen."

"And the blindfold—the horizontal line? That was a number as well," Sherlock said. He held up a price tag he'd found that had the same dash across it and the English equivalent claiming it to be one pound beneath it. Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "The Chinese number one, Watsons."

"We've found it!" John beamed.

Sherlock replaced the price tag and began to lead the way away from the shop. A long exhale loosed from my lips and I frowned. Sure, we knew what the symbols meant, but what good did numbers do us? As I followed after Sherlock and John, I spotted a woman wearing black clothing and dark sunglasses raising a camera to her face with the lens facing toward us. I frowned and glanced back to see if there was something of interest a tourist would take a picture of; but all that was there was the grocer's. Looking back, I saw the woman was gone.

It was probably nothing, but I couldn't help but remember Miyako's first words of warning to me.

" _Not everyone is as they seem; you must look deeper and expect the worst if you want to survive._ "

"Max, let's go!" Sherlock called over his shoulder for me.

"Right," I mumbled, and headed after him and my brother.


	14. The Blind Banker, Part 4

_Maxine_

We ended up staking out the The Lucky Cat in the restaurant across the street. Sherlock jotted down the two Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents on a napkin as John wrote down notes in a small notebook. I had elected to sit beside Sherlock rather than my brother, since I was still cross with him. I stared at the shop with a furrowed brow, my head in my hands.

"Two men travel back from China," John said. "Both head straight for The Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases," Sherlock murmured.

"And you don't mean duty free," John mused.

At that point, the waitress came back and placed a plate of food in front of John and a coffee in front of me.

"Thank you," John told her as I gave her a small appreciative nod.

As soon as the waitress walked away, I took a sip of my coffee before saying, "Smugglers."

"Sorry?" John looked up at me with raised brows.

I avoided his gaze. "The men. Obviously smugglers."

"She's right," Sherlock said. "Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon—about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million." John leaned back in his seat and grimaced.

"Made is back in a week." Sherlock looked up from his napkin and at my brother.

"Mmm..." John began to pick at his food.

"That's how he made such easy money," Sherlock pointed out.

"He was a smuggler. Mm..." John took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. He glanced warily at me. Clearly, he wanted to talk about before, but now wasn't exactly the time and both of us knew it. Not to mention, I was in no hurry to bring it back up.

"A guy like him—it would have been perfect," Sherlock said. "Business man..."

"Mm-hmm," John agreed with his mouth full of food.

"...making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same... a journalist writing about China."

Miyako had told me of her doing similar things in her past. Getting goods between different countries was something that was highly sought for with criminal organizations. It was a bit strange- a lot of this reminded me a little _too_ much about the crew Miyako had to deal with back in Japan- the same organization that wanted to use me to control her.

"Both of them smuggled stuff out, and The Lucky Cat was their drop-off," Sherlock said.

"But why did they die?" John asked. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event; after they'd finished the job?"

Sherlock sit back in his seat thoughtfully for a few seconds, then a smile stretched his lips.

"You've got the answer?" I prompted.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" the detective suggested.

"How d'you mean?" John queried.

"Stole something; something from the hoard," Sherlock said.

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right." John nodded and took another bit of food while glancing at the shop across the street.

I was the one sitting closer to the window and as I leaned forward to drink from my coffee, Sherlock abruptly gripped my shoulder and pulled mer back. He leaned over me, his cheek an inch from my lips, and stared at the shop with narrowed eyes.

"Uh—" I began.

"Remind me..." Sherlock said softly, "...when was the last time it rained?"

Without waiting for a response from either of us, he slid off the bench and headed for the door.

"Good thing we paid up front," John muttered, staring mournfully at his plate before getting up and following.

I sighed heavily and took a long drink from my coffee before going after the boys.

Across the street, Sherlock bent down to a Yellow Pages phonebook that laid on the sidewalk against the wall of a building directly beside The Lucky Cat. John and I paused behind him as he peered at it; the plastic wrapper had drops of water spattered on it and the top of it was broken open a little. Sherlock ran his fingers over the top of the damp and exposed pages of the directory.

"It's been here since Monday," Sherlock noted. Straightening, the detective pressed the doorbell to the flat the book sat outside of. He only waited a couple of heartbeats before turning to the right and walking off down the walkway.

"What are we doing?" I asked as John and I trotted after him.

Sherlock led us down the alley beside the flat and glanced over his shoulder at us.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days," he said.

"Could've gone on holiday," John suggested.

"D' _you_ leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock asked.

We'd reached the rear of the building and the detective craned his head back to look up at the cantilevered metal fire escape over our heads. Sherlock backed up a few paces and took a running leap to grab the end and pull it down to the ground. He bounded up the steps and I headed up after him, spotting the open window he was talking about.

Our ascent had been too eager, however, for when we reached the landing, the ladder swung back up to its horizontal position and John was still down on the ground.

"Sherlock! Maddie!" he called up.

I glanced toward the ladder and shrugged. Honestly, I was getting sick of the underlying strain of anxiety my brother's mere presence was causing me. Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't even glance John's way, too focused on the open window. John huffed and turned to start jogging back toward the front of the building.

"Just lemme in through the front," he said over his shoulder as he went.

 _Not likely,_ I thought.

"C'mon, Max," Sherlock said as he began to climb through the window. The moment he vanished into the flat, I heard him cry out in muffled alarm.

Startled, I darted to the window and stuck my head in just in time to see Sherlock catch a vase before it hit the ground. The detective stared at the floor for a moment before straightening up. There was a wet patch on the carpet right where the vase would have landed if Sherlock hadn't caught it.

"Someone else has been here," Sherlock said softly as I climbed in through the window behind him. The detective replaced the vase and ran his thumb on its decorative surface. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did."

I glanced around to see we were in a quant kitchen and given the decor, I was willing to bet that vase had flowers in it at one point. The room definitely had an elegant, feminine flare. Sherlock strode over to the washing machine that was located on the end of the room and opened it up. From it, he pulled a pair of woman's underwear and sniffed it. As he grimaced, I raised my brows at him.

"It was the first thing I grabbed," he defended. "Smells like mildew. The load was started but never moved to the drier."

The doorbell rang out overhead and I could faintly hear John's voice from downstairs. "D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?"

Ordinarily, I might have gone down and allowed my brother to join our investigation, however I still didn't want him within fifty meters of me. Sherlock didn't seem to have any inclination to let him in either as he felt the tea towel on the table where the vase was to find it was dry. He carefully began to head farther in and I walked after him, carefully eyeing our surroundings.

"Can you _not_ keep doing this, please?" John's voice called from downstairs, this time louder. I heard the squeak of metal hinges and guessed he had flipped up the mail slot to yell inside.

Sherlock was in the kitchen now and opened the fridge. He reached inside and grabbed a pint of milk to screw off the cap and smell it. His nose scrunched up a bit and he swiftly put it back where he found it; gone bad I'd guess.

"We're not the first!" he said toward the stairs, evidently at John.

"What?" John yelled back.

"Somebody's been here before us!" Sherlock shouted as I headed toward the beaded curtain that separated the kitchen from the next room.

" _What_ are you saying?" John demanded.

I frowned as I noticed the rug right in front of the entryway had been rucked up at the corner. I pointed down at it and looked at Sherlock. He instantly came to my side while pulling out a magnifying glass from his coat pocket. The detective squatted down and peered at the faint print that had been left.

"Size eight feet," he murmured.

"Small man or slightly bigger woman," I said.

"Small," Sherlock agreed, "but athletic."

He stood and pushed through the beaded curtain and into the next room. I followed to see it was a living room combined with a bedroom. I could see the foot of the bed peeking out from behind a decorative screen and on the our side of it was a dresser. There were more trinkets scattered about, but at the same time, the place was still tidy. I strode into the room on careful footsteps, raking my gaze along the walls and furniture for any possible clues.

The doorbell rang again and I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. I was starting to consider testing my Aikido on a war veteran.

Sherlock walked over to the dresser and picked up a photograph that had been propped there. Curious, I went to him and peered from around his arm. The photo showed two young Chinese children: a boy and a girl. They were both smiling widely at the camera. There was a handprint on the glass of the frame and Sherlock lifted his magnifier again to examine it.

"Small, strong hands," he said softly. He closed the magnifier and replaced the frame. "Our acrobat."

He frowned and began to look around. I glanced back toward the beaded curtain, which was still swaying from when we passed through it.

"But why didn't he close the window when he left?" I asked.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock said. I turned back to see him pause and roll his eyes. "Oh, stupid. _Stupid._ Obvious. He's still here."

I raised my brows at him. "Still here?" I echoed.

Sherlock put a finger to his lips and then gestured his head toward the screen that shielded the bed from our view. It made sense; there wasn't anywhere else that would be convenient for our intruder to hide. Side-by-side, Sherlock and I began to carefully stalk toward the screen on light feet. When we reached it, Sherlock reached forward and gripped the edge to swiftly pull it back.

Two stuffed animals greeted us with wide, glassy eyes. They admittedly looked startled from where they sat on the bedside table. Then, before either of us could make a comment or move, Sherlock was suddenly no longer by my side.

Alarmed, I turned to see a figure in all-black garb had a silken white scarf twined in his fists with the middle wrapped around Sherlock's throat. The assailant was male, giving his build, though he was on the small side, just like Sherlock had predicted. He dragged the detective to the ground and proceeded to throttle him.

Without a word, I darted forward and scampered around Sherlock's flailing legs to get at the black-clothed man from the side.

" _Any_ time you two want to include me," John's voice echoed from up the stairs.

I didn't have time to respond to him. I had gotten around the side while Sherlock desperately gripped at the scarf in an attempt to free his airway. The man clearly wasn't expecting me to be so quick to retaliate. His dark brown eyes met mine just before I snaked an arm beneath his and used the same hand to grip the back of his head. I planted my feet and grabbed the man's opposite waist with my free hand, then used my body weight to throw him off of Sherlock.

It didn't succeed exactly as I planned. The man did lose his grip on Sherlock, but in my attempt to fling him to the side, he threw himself back and on top of me. I let out a startled grunt as I was pinned to the floor. I could hear Sherlock coughing and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him on all fours, trying to recover.

"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" John bellowed from downstairs. "Unless that someone is John Watson's little sister, who for some reason connects more with me than her own _own brother!_ "

Mildly distracted by the flare of anger that surged through me at John's words, I wasn't prepared when the man rolled over to face me and grabbed my by the hair. I yelped as he nimbly jumped up and yanked me into a sitting position. However, before he could do anything else, Sherlock was up and charged at him.

The detective tackled him to the ground; unfortunately, the man didn't lose his grip on my hair. I clenched my teeth as I was pulled about a meter across the floor. I twisted and reached up to grip the hand that had hold of me, trying to pry the man's fingers loose. I couldn't see what was happening between him and Sherlock, but after some grunting, my hair was finally free and I rolled quickly away.

With an aching scalp, I looked up to see the man had gotten Sherlock in a chokehold again. The detective struggled violently, but every squirm he gave was growing visibly weaker than the last and his eyes were fluttering.

I got to my feet and began to move toward the assailant again, but he dragged Sherlock away through the beaded curtain with surprising speed, considering his load. I suddenly wished I had my dagger with me as I darted after them. Clearly, the man saw Sherlock as the main target or threat; he was determined to take the detective down first.

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock's arms had gone limp and he was no longer attempting escape. The man released him and faced me, his body posed for combat. I glanced at Sherlock to make sure his chest was still rising and falling before focusing wholly on the intruder. He swiftly moved in toward me, his hands open and with the intent to grapple. I knew there was a good chance that his strength would outweigh my own considering how easily he dragged Sherlock. I bolted backwards with one, agile jump and his hands grabbed nothing but air.

With a triumphant smile, I moved to the side before he could readjust. I lashed out my leg and kicked him in the back so hard it sent him back through the beaded curtain and into the living room area again. He rolled on the ground when he landed and was already on his feet again when I followed after him. The moment I emerged from the beaded curtain, he shot toward me with speed I wasn't anticipating.

The assailant shoved me against the wall and my head cracked against it, dazing me. As I stumbled, his hands gripped my yellow scarf and he tightened it around my neck while pulling me up against his chest. My feet left the floor and I tried to dig my fingers beneath the fabric to get some air in, but this guy was just too damn strong. I kicked and thrashed, but the longer my lungs were left empty, the more darkness began to creep in at the corners of my vision.

"John..." I rasped weakly. "Sherlock..."

Then it all went black.

* * *

"Max."

It really felt nice to finally sleep. No part of my body wanted to waken when someone began to gently prod my side and shake my shoulder. For a moment, I wasn't sure who it was- but then I recalled that there was only one man alive that I allowed to call me Max.

"Max, c'mon, up you get," Sherlock Holme's urged.

I forced my eyes to flutter open and I saw the detective kneeling over me. We were still in the flat we'd climbed into and I was lying on the living room floor with a very sore throat.

Sherlock's seemed to be sore too, for when he talked, it sounded croaky and rough. "Good. I think John would have killed me if we had to take you to the hospital."

"The intruder...?" I queried with an equally raspy voice.

"Scampered off," Sherlock said. "Let's go. We need to find out more about this Soo Lin Yao; she's the one who was staying at this flat."

"Of course..." I muttered, sitting up with Sherlock's help. "Why didn't he kill us?"

"Because his intention was to send a message, not kill," Sherlock said as he reached into his pocket and produced a small, black paper flower. "You probably have one too."

"Oh souvenirs?" I said dryly as I struggled to sit up.

Sherlock pressed a hand to my back to help me keep steady. The moment I was fully up, the twin to the detective's paper flower fell from the folds of my scarf and into my lap. I frowned at it and picked it up. I was rather annoyed that the man had used the one physical object I had sentiment for to strangle me. I tossed the flower aside before examining the yellow fabric to make sure he didn't stretch it too badly.

"That's evidence," Sherlock grunted as he went after the paper I threw.

"How long were we out?" I queried as I got to my feet.

"Not long- thirty seconds maybe," Sherlock replied. "C'mon. Your brother is a touch cross with us."

I grimaced with irritation and headed for the stairs.

When we opened the door, John was standing outside with his posture tight and his jaw clenched. Clearly, he wasn't pleased with being left out. Both Sherlock and I were massaging our throats and still a little wobbly on our feet.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell," Sherlock croaked. "Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

John looked between the two of us, seeming to sense something was off. If Sherlock wasn't going to mention our assailant, I wasn't. I just nodded to show I agreed with the detective.

"Somebody?" John echoed.

Sherlock nodded now. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

I glanced down to check my scarf again and noticed something down by my feet. I bent down and picked up a small folded envelope.

"But how, exactly?" John prompted.

I wordlessly handed Sherlock the envelope after glancing at it. It read: _SOO LIN Please ring me tell me you're OK — Andy._

Sherlock unfolded the envelope and peered at the front. I looked over his shoulder to see printed at the bottom right-hand corner was: _NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM._

"Maybe we start with this," Sherlock suggested. His voice was still husky.

The detective headed out into the street, closing the door to the flat behind him. As he strode down the road, John and I trotted after him.

"You've gone all croaky," John noted. "Are you getting a cold?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock managed to say between a fit of coughs.

* * *

I leaned against a wall blinking sleepily as Sherlock paced around the display area within the National Antiquities Museum. There were a number of old trinkets and such within the glass cases, but all I could focus on was Sherlock's reflection being bounced between all of them. He _had_ agreed to let me draw him, so now I just had to decide what tools to use. Charcoals maybe? Those fancy markers John got me for Christmas? Or perhaps just simple graphite pencils?

"When was the last time that you saw her?" the detective pressed.

Oh. Right. We were trying to catch a murderer.

Andy was a tall, gangly guy, perhaps within a year or two of my age. His brown hair was curly, not unlike Sherlock's, but it wasn't as dark nor were the ringlets as tight.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum," Andy replied.

Sherlock examined another glass case that held some clay teapots. I followed his gaze and noted that most of them were dull, but one gleamed in the lighting from overhead.

"This morning, they told me she'd resigned just like that," Andy went on as Sherlock moved on to the other cases- some with jade figurines, others with artwork. "Just left her work unfinished."

I rested my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. My exhaustion was really crashing in on me; especially after the encounter with our acrobat. I needed sleep—desperately.

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock's voice sounded far off like he was speaking on the other side of a waterfall.

"Maddie."

Something prodded my arm and I jumped, my mind flashing to the black-garbed man trying to strangle me, but it was just John.

"We're moving," he said, gesturing to where Andy and Sherlock were walking out of the room.

I closed my eyes again, savoring the warmth my lids brought them, then pushed myself off the wall to follow.

Andy led us down to the basement where there were a good number of random art pieces and the like stashed about. Some were covered up with white cloths, others merely gathering dust. It seemed to be a storage area and an archive all in one. Andy went to one of the stacks and began to work with it, but I was already staring off as my body demanded I just curl up and sleep for ten years.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists—a-a tea ceremony," Andy explained. "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."

I could hear rustling somewhere to my right. I started to wonder if the boys would notice if I found a dark corner and fell asleep while they finished this up.

Abruptly, Sherlock walked by me; he was so close he nearly knocked me over. I blinked rapidly and lifted my head to see he had spotted something of great interest: a life-size statue of a nude woman with yellow paint sprayed in a straight line across the eyes and the upside down eight on the abdomen.

"Oh," I mumbled. "Good. So that's a no on the break."

Back outside the museum, night had fallen. Sherlock's pace was swift as ever as he began to stride down the street.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," he said.

"If she's still alive," John pointed out.

"Sherlock!"

The three of us turned to see a familiar figure running toward us: Raz.

"Oh, look who it is," John said irritably.

Raz didn't pay any attention to him as he said to Sherlock, "Found something you'll like." Then he trotted off.

I wanted to groan. I either needed to sleep or another coffee.

We walked for about fifteen minutes. I started to lag behind and John slowed his pace to come back to where I was.

"Listen, Maddie," he began.

"Unless you're going to offer me a nap or caffeine, don't speak," I grumbled without looking at him.

"I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier," John pressed. "It was stupid and I don't know what I was thinking."

I started to take out my mobile.

"Maddie, don't," John scolded.

"My settings," I muttered.

"No, no settings. Put the phone away," John snapped, pushing my hand down.

I exhaled in frustration and shoved my mobile back into my pocket. "You wouldn't have said what you did if you didn't mean it," I told him.

"Mad- that's..." John trailed off and ran his thumb over his fingers. "All right, I admit that part of me just isn't comfortable with you taking care of me because of our age difference and that you're my little sister. I don't know why, but it just—it just embarrasses me!"

"But Sherlock helping you doesn't," I said.

"I told you, I _don't know why_ ," John sighed. "Listen: what matters is that I know that it's stupid. It just—it matters to me to take care of myself. With Sherlock, I'm planning on paying him back. I know if I borrowed from you, you wouldn't let me do that."

"I don't mind you getting a job and handling yourself," I said, "but I don't get why I can't just assist when you're in between them."

"It's just... something to my self esteem, I guess? I dunno Maddie—like I said, it's stupid," John insisted.

"Then there's what you said back at Soo Lin's flat," I added.

"You two weren't letting me in!" John argued.

"I keep getting mixed messages form you about Sherlock and me," I said. "He told you himself when we first met him that he's married to his work. And I've never been interested in men."

John suddenly raised his brows at me.

I rolled my eyes. "Or women," I clarified.

John let out a long exhale through pursed lips. "You just seem to connect with him more than anyone outside the family, y'know? You let him call you Max."

"That was a spontaneous thing," I confessed. "Unconscious decision."

"What?" John blinked.

"Don't worry about it." I waved him off. "We're fine, John. But you're going to let me help you now and again."

"Says who?" John demanded.

"Me," I said simply. "If you don't, then I'll just never talk to you again. You know I can do it."

John grimaced and shook his head. "It's a little unnerving how easy it is to see you accomplishing that."

"Then we have an agreement," I said and trotted to catch up with Sherlock and Raz.

Oddly enough, John's conversation with me seemed to drive some energy into my system. Or perhaps it was the fact that we had crossed Hungerford Bridge and now reached the South Bank Skate Park. I'd been in this area before; it was riddled with young adults and teenagers most times. Graffiti painted nearly every surface of pavement and concrete. There were some teens riding around on pushbikes and they were yelling enthusiastically at one another.

All the different forms of art that splayed across my vision along with the energetic teens and our most likely dangerous mission hit me all in one go. John finally apologized and we'd talked things through; I got to see all this lovely street art; plus we were hunting a killer.

Other probably found my definition of a good night very odd.

"If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said to us. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

We came to a halt and Raz pointed at one of the heavily graffitied walls.

"There," he said. "I spotted it earlier."

Tucked away in all the other various pictures and tags were distinct slashes of yellow paint forming Chinese symbols. They were already partially covered by some of the other pieces. I stepped closer to it and examined the gleam it carried in the orange glow of the street lamps.

"Zinc," I murmured.

"They _have_ been here," Sherlock breathed. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz confirmed. "Your pretty lady friend has an eye for paint too, huh?"

I turned around to see John's face pinch with distaste as he glared at Raz.

"Y'know, I would so appreciate you showing up on Tuesday to just tell them it was your bag," my brother said tightly.

"Forget about your court date," Sherlock said. "John, if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

I turned around and examined the expanse of the skate park around us.

"I'm never going to get sleep," I said, shaking my head in defeat.

"C'mon, Max," Sherlock said. "Like Raz said, you have an eye for paint."

"Don't forget the pretty part," Raz added with a sly wink at me.

"Yes, all right, you can leave now, we'll take it from here," John said loudly.

"But I could help—" Raz began.

"Go!" John barked.

Raz laughed a bit, gave me one last smile, then turned and jogged away.

"For someone who wants me to date, you sure like to chase off all the guys that are interested," I said.

"Yes well, so far, they've all been bastards," John said with an unapologetic smile.

"Glad you two made up, now let's get moving," Sherlock pressed. He handed me and John each a small flashlight.

"You just... carry these with you?" I asked.

Sherlock merely gestured at me to get going with a wave of his hand.

With that, the three of us split up to examine the skate park. I wandered toward the equipment that the skaters used and peered at the graffiti that was plastered on them. As I ran the flashlight slowly over one of the halfpipes, I couldn't help but wonder who they were trying to send a message to here of all places. Was some kid mixed up in this crap? Miyako said she was very young when she got into trouble with the crime organizations over in Japan- perhaps that could happen here too.

Smugglers and killings... it really did sound like Miyako's old crowd. However, these folks were Chinese, not Japanese. Surely, there wasn't a connection. Besides, why the hell would they come all the way to England to find me? Miyako had been certain going home was what would keep me safe.

I shook my head and tried to get myself back on task. The lack of sleep was making my mind wander too much.

After about ten minutes of walking and scanning every graffitied surface I could find with my flashlight, I still hadn't found any more of the Chinese symbols- let lone any of the same yellow paint. I was starting to contemplate sneaking off to find a cab and go back to the flat to sleep, but then I heard John's voice in the distance.

"Maddie! Maddie!"

I turned my head to see my brother jogging toward me. His eyes were alight with excitement.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" he asked, partially out of breath as he paused by me.

"No, why?" I replied.

"I found something—something huge!" John said. "I've tried his mobile, he won't answer— and neither would you!"

"Oh." I took out my phone and saw I had six missed calls from him. "Sorry. Must have left it on silent."

"Let's just find him," John urged before running off.

It didn't take us too long to find our flatmate. He was examining a parked rail freight container near the edge of the park.

"Answer your phone!" John shouted as he trotted toward him. "I've been calling you! I've found it!"

Sherlock instantly turned and followed after us without a word. I had to guess he hadn't found anything substantial or he would have mentioned it- that, or it wasn't of immediate importance.

John led us back to an underpass where a large wall loomed to support the bridge. It towered about six meters overhead and it's surface was a desaturated gray. In the glow of our flashlights, its surface was oddly glossy and reflective.

"It's been painted over!" John exclaimed in disbelief. "I don't understand. It- it was here..." He stumbled backwards and continued to gape at the blank wall. "...ten minutes ago. I _saw_ it. A whole wall of graffiti!"

That was why the surface of the wall looked off—it was wet paint. I stepped closer to the wall and frowned.

"Whoever it was did a thorough job," I said. "Multiple coats, even. Whatever was beneath is lost to us now."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock said softly.

I turned around just in time to see Sherlock grab my brother's head with both hands.

"Sherlock, what are you doing...?" John asked warily.

"Yeah, I must admit, I'm curious too," I said.

"Shh, John, concentrate," Sherlock ordered. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, what? Why? Why?" John stammered.

Sherlock's hands slid down to grip John's upper arms instead.

"What are you doing?!" John exclaimed.

The detective began to spin them around slowly on the spot while staring intensely into John's eyes. My brows had disappeared behind my curly bangs as I tried to understand what I was witnessing.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory," Sherlock said. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John said.

"Can you remember it?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yes, definitely," John assured him.

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How _much_ can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry..." John began.

Sherlock was still spinning them. "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well, don't worry," John said. "I remember all of it."

"Really?" Sherlock's tone was skeptical.

"Yeah, well at least I _would—_ " John pulled himself free of Sherlock's grip, "—if I could get to my pockets!" He then began to rummage in his pants pockets for a moment. "I took a photograph."

My brother opened up the picture on his phone that showed a series of yellow symbols clearly thanks to the flash of his mobile's camera. He plopped the device in Sherlock's hand. The detective's expression was embarrassed as he took it and slowly turned to face away from both of us. John came to my side and shook his head, his look saying: _Can you believe that?_

I smiled and shrugged. "Next time just open with the fact that you took a photograph," I told him. "Though, that _was_ pretty amusing."

John rolled his eyes at me and I caught Sherlock shooting me a small glare over his shoulder.

* * *

 _John_

Sherlock had enlarged the photograph into small sections and printed them off to stick on the mirror with the rest of our visual evidence. The moment we got home, Maxine had retired upstairs and told us that if we valued our lives, we wouldn't wake her unless it was something incredibly important or life-threatening. This left Sherlock and I to peer at the pictures and attempt to figure out this cipher.

"Always in pairs, John," Sherlock said. He was standing at the fireplace and peering at the photographs closely.

I had been dozing in my seat at the dining room table. Maxine wasn't the only one exhausted from our adventurous day. I lifted my head from my hands and blinked blearily as I turned to look at the detective.

"Hmm?"

"Numbers come with partners," Sherlock said.

I looked around the flat as the weight of just how tired I was sank in. How did Maxine do this for four days?

"God, I need sleep," I grumbled.

Sherlock didn't seem to either hear me or care. "Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," I said while trying to stifle a yawn.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day," Sherlock said.

I propped my head against my hand again. I had to get _some_ semblance of sleep tonight or I'd be useless for my first day of work tomorrow. "Just twenty minutes."

There was a small pause, and I was just about to drift off when Sherlock's voice exclaimed, "Of _course!_ "

I jolted and looked around at him again. He was smiling triumphantly at one of the photographs.

"He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld," Sherlock declared. "Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." He ran his finger over the symbols. "Somewhere here in the code." He yanked three of the pictures off the wall and turned toward the door. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Oh, good," I groaned and forced myself to my feet. "What about Maddie?"

Sherlock paused by the door and glanced toward the stairs. He seems to consider for a moment, then shakes his head. "She's only been up there for an hour and a half—she's going to be useless until she gets more sleep."

I started to open my mouth to tell him _all_ of us could be more useful with sleep, but he was already out the door and trotting down the steps. I exhaled slowly and followed.


	15. The Blind Banker, Part 5

_Maxine_

It was one of the best night's sleep I'd ever had. It was deep and the dreams that ran through my head were gentle, but vivid. I swam through rivers while being able to breathe under water; I flew through the sky and leapt across mountains.

When I finally woke, sunlight was peering through my window and given the angle, it was way past morning. I blinked and sat up by pushing my arms down while stretching at the same time. My fingers clenched around the sheets and I reveled in how much better my mind and body felt.

Then I wondered why the hell the boys let me sleep so late. Had nothing exciting happen? I hoped Sherlock didn't hit a dead end with the case.

After another stretch, I got out of bed and snagged my blue robe. Once it was over my arms and loosely wrapped around me, I headed out of my room and downstairs.

The sight that greeted me wasn't one I was prepared for.

Our flat was filled to the brim with boxes and boxes of books. There were books everywhere: on the kitchen table, in the chairs, on the sofa, scattered on the floor; I even saw some stacked on top of the fridge.

"Okay, what?" I breathed.

"Oh, you're awake."

I turned around to see Sherlock emerge from behind some boxes. He had an open book in one hand that he was scanning and several others under his opposite arm.

"Grab a book-—make sure there are two copies of it—go to page 15, look at the first word, tell me if it's something that might make sense with the cipher," Sherlock said, still not looking at me.

"What is happening?" I asked. "Where's John?"

"Mm, we found Soo Lin Yao last night," Sherlock said. "And John's at his new job." He spoke the second sentence with a hint of irritation.

"You found her?" I said. "Then why isn't she deciphering all this?"

"Because shortly after we found her, she was killed," Sherlock explained nonchalantly.

I blinked several times. "What did you guys _do_ last night?"

Sherlock closed the book in his hand with a snap and tossed it aside. It landed on the floor with a loud _flump_ near some others that appeared to have been discarded in the same manner. Finally, the detective lifted his green eyes to meet mine.

"Went to the museum again, talked to Adam, saw that another tea pot was shiny, guessed Soo Lin was coming back in the night to polish them," Sherlock said, his words firing out like bullets. "Waited for her, found her, talked to her. She's part of the Black Lotus, the group our acrobat friend is from. Tattoos of the Mark of the Tong signify them belonging to the group."

Sherlock opened the next book and paused with his rant for a moment as he leafed through the pages. He paused not too far in—page fifteen, I assumed—then closed it and tossed it aside.

"The Black Lotus is a crime syndicate running a smuggling operation here in London," the detective said, meeting my eyes. "It's more of a cult than anything. The acrobat was corrupted by one of the leaders at a young age—basically brainwashed. The leader is Shan; General Shan. Seems they like to keep a tight leash on their members."

I vividly recalled Miyako on my last night in Tokyo. My eyes lowered to glance around the room and I bit my lip. She still emailed me, and everything seemed to be all right. However, I couldn't help but feel responsible. Sure, she was alive, but what if they had pulled her back into doing work for them? What if she was trapped in her old life because of me?

"So then the acrobat comes in with a gun, shoots at us for a bit. All three of us got separated. When we found Soo Lin again, she'd been shot," Sherlock went on. "I still couldn't convince Dimmock that these kills are related, so I went to the morgue and found the same tattoos on Lukis and Van Coon to prove it. Now, all we have to go on is what little Soo Lin told us about the cipher."

He grabbed a book and tossed it toward me. I caught it out of reflex and stared at the cover. It was a copy of _Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring._

"Hence, the book thing," Sherlock said. "Page fifteen, first word. We're specifically looking for books both Lukis and Van Coon owned; that's where these are all from." He grabbed another book from inside a box and tossed it.

I shook my head as I caught the second copy. "I doubt they used J. R. Tolkien as their guide book."

"Have to check all of them," Sherlock insisted.

I plopped down in a dining room chair. "Why didn't you guys wake me to come back to the museum with you?" I was a little bummed I missed a shootout.

Sherlock paused and looked up at me with a small tilt of his head. "You're really upset about this," he stated rather than asked.

"I wouldn't say 'upset' is the right word," I muttered as I opened the book and flipped to the fifteenth page. "'Gandalf.' Is this the code you're looking for?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched in something between annoyance and amusement. "Are you being _snide?_ "

"Dunno what you're on about." I closed the book and tossed it aside. "Did you see our acrobat?"

"Not up close," Sherlock said after eyeing me for a moment longer, "but we know who he is. Zhi Zhu—the Spider. He's also Soo Lin's twin brother. Didn't catch his real name."

I raised my brows. "Her brother killed her?"

"He wanted her advice on antiquities," Sherlock explained. "One of the smugglers—Van Coon or Lukis—stole something from their last horde and sold it on auction under an anonymous seller."

"Okay..." I sighed. "So, what, the code that this Zhi Zh left—the numbers one and fifteen—it could be the item they stole?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said. "We didn't get much from Soo Lin before he arrived."

"Mmm, no, couldn't be the item..." I got to my feet and strode across the living room, carefully weaving through all the books. Each box was marked whether if came from Van Coon's or Lukis' place. I guessed all the discarded books were the ones already checked. I could see that there were some neat piles here and there on the table surfaces, but it was clear that as time went on, the boys got either too tired or too impatient to keep up the cleanliness.

I grabbed two boxes (one from each flat) and set them side-by-side. As I tore the tape free and opened them, I glanced back at Sherlock who was watching me curiously.

"If this Spider went to his sister to ask for her help finding the stolen item, he would have told her what it was, which would cause it to make sense for him to show her a symbol that translated to the item," I said. "However, both Van Coon and Lukis were shown the symbol as well, but only one of them could have stolen it. This leads the probable translation to be a threat and something they've used before in their organization to cause such immediate panic in those who saw it. Could be that they were either both involved, or the innocent one knew it would be pointless to try and explain his way out of anything... especially if the real one who did it was already dead..."

"You think it was Van Coon?" Sherlock asked.

I began to rummage in the books, searching for pairs of the same ones. "Think about it: say Lukis hears about Van Coon's death. The two of them hauled the same goods perhaps, or something like that. At first, maybe he just thinks Van Coon got what was coming to him for crossing this Black Lotus. But then _he_ sees the cipher in a place they knew he would look."

I found a pair of identical books and opened the first one to the fifteenth page. The first word was "lacking" and it was mid-sentence too. I grunted and closed the book before tossing both aside.

"So, you're saying that Lukis would panic—he would know that the Black Lotus would most likely never listen to a word he says, and since Van Coon was already dead, there was no way for them to get the information out of him," Sherlock said.

I nodded. "These people appear to be a fearsome organization considering they just killed both suspects without questioning them. I mean, how do they figure they'll get their item back?"

Sherlock leaned against one of the stacks of boxes, his brow furrowed as he peered down at where I was sitting on the floor. I looked up to see those pale green eyes were sharp—sharp like when he figured something out.

"What?" I perked a brow at him.

"The way you talk about all this strikes me as odd," the detective admitted. "I know that you're smarter than the average person—you can even keep up with me at times—but the look on your face was saying something else. Like you were... recalling something. Nostalgia, maybe?"

I adverted my eyes from his before I thought about how guilty of a gesture that was.

"Ah..." Sherlock set his book down on top of a box and slowly approached me. "There's something to this you're not telling me."

"About the case?" I still wouldn't look directly at him. I was cursing myself for leaving my mobile upstairs. "Y'know I'd never do that."

"This isn't about the case; you don't hide anything when it's about someone else." Sherlock slowly squatted down beside me so that our eyes were level. When I started to reach into the boxes for more books, his hand snaked out and snatched my wrist. He used his other to grip my chin and force me to look at him. "I've been noticing you acting odd since we figured out what was really going on in this case and at first I thought it was just your exhaustion. But now, you're alert and bright-eyed and acting stranger than ever."

"How am I acting strange?" I demanded softly, trying to squirm away from him.

Sherlock's grip didn't loosen and his green eyes continued to pierce into mine. "Your words—they're quick and precise—you talk like you've _seen_ this kind of thing before. When you heard about the Black Lotus being a crime syndicate, your gaze dropped and you bit your lip. Your eyes darted around. There are characteristics of someone recalling something traumatic."

He finally released me and leaned back. I didn't take my eyes from him this time, certain he'd grab my face again if I did.

"Thing is, Max, you _adore_ danger. So this event you're remembering couldn't have been anything in the violent nature," Sherlock said softly. "No... it was something deeper—something emotional."

"Can you maybe—just _once—_ ignore that side of you that needs to know everything and let this one go?" I asked him.

"No," Sherlock responded without a single second of hesitation. "And if you _don't_ tell me, I'll just have to find out by other means." He smiled broadly.

I sighed and stretched out my legs in front of me. "If you tell John, I _will_ do every single thing I know for certain annoys you for the next month," I warned.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Why can't John know?" he queried. Then his face lit with realization. "Ah. You hate him worrying about you just like he hates you worrying about him. You two have an awful lot in common."

"I know," I said. "So, do we have a deal?"

"Deal," Sherlock agreed. There was a hunger in those green eyes of his that made me want to scoot a few inches away from him.

I took a deep breath and then began. "So after my first few months in Japan, I got bored with the routine I'd gotten into. So, I started trying to find things to do with my time, and I passed this same Aikido place on my way to work from my flat every day. I finally went inside, and that's where I met Kaida Miyako."

"Your mentor," Sherlock said.

"Sensei, but yeah, basically," I replied. "She didn't have a large class at the time, so she let me start. She's maybe twelve years older than me—John's age, I'd say. Tiny though, smaller than me, if you can believe it. But she could throw anyone on their ass with ease.

"So I started training under her, and oddly enough, we got on well. She was the only person in Japan I really connected to. I think she understood me more than I understood myself. This was before I figured out how much I liked... er... exciting circumstances. After about six months, we were at the point that we'd go get a drink together now and then, and I'd shown her my drawings and we'd go to the cinema every so often. She was my... friend."

"You don't make friends easy," Sherlock guessed flatly.

"Miyako was my first friend," I confessed. "Unless we're counting John. Thing is, growing up I had people I would spend time with, but I never... connected with them like I did with Miyako. She meant something to me—I cared about how she thought of me and how she was doing."

"So what happened with her?" Sherlock prompted as he got into a more comfortable position sitting on the floor beside me.

"Well, one day, I noticed something a bit off about her left hand," I said. "See, Miyako almost always wore a glove on that hand. She claimed it was a lucky charm and she was sentimental about it, so I didn't pester her. But when I saw her take it off to wash her hands, I saw that the pinky was missing the top end—y'know, where the first knuckle is."

Sherlock's eyes instantly widened with new understanding. "Yakuza. _Really?_ No, it makes perfect sense... That's why you're so invested in this case—why you were willing to just keep going no matter how tired you were... It's another asian crime syndicate—it reminds you of it."

"Miyako had once been part of the Inagawa-kai clan," I explained. "She started off smuggling drugs, but eventually moved up to protection detail. She was a quick study when it came to combat and a lot of people underestimated her because of her size. She would protect other members during jobs or go beat someone to near-death to send a message."

"Sounds like an intricate resume," Sherlock murmured.

"Miyako hated it," I said. "She eventually bought her way out of it and moved away to start a fresh life. For a while, she managed to do it."

"Then what happened?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, when Miyako told me about her past, I talked about how Aikido was normally a passive combat—it's designed to not hurt the assailant badly. Miyako told me how she had to keep fighting somehow; she was too worried to fall out of shape. And she still practiced and knew the art of lethal fighting as well. To my surprise, she offered to teach me." I shook my head, still unable to believe how I didn't see Miyako's true motives back then.

Sherlock's face twitched with curiosity. "She... used you. She betrayed you somehow."

"I dunno if _betrayed_ is the right word," I said. "Initially, Miyako was intending to train me for more... nefarious purposes. She'd been doing it with a select few of her students for the past decade."

"Nefarious purposes being...?" Sherlock prompted.

"To try and assassinate key members of the Inagawa-kai clan," I replied with a small shrug.

Sherlock blinked several times and repositioned so he could face me without having to turn his head. "She was training you to be an _assassin?_ "

"It sounds really outrageous, saying it out loud..." I realized with a frown crossing my face.

Sherlock let out a small scoff of disbelief and shook his head. "No, it makes perfect sense... the way you handle that dagger of yours... how you're never concerned to face off against a combatant. You didn't hesitate when Zhi Zhu had hold of me back at Soo Lin's flat and considering how quickly you got him off of me..."

"Miyako roped me in by stating that in some cases, attackers were too dangerous to keep at bay with just Aikido," I said. "Sometimes, it required a more... lethal approach to keep them away. Even with the more intensive training, she did teach me how to hold back just before a potentially fatal attack."

"Her theory you mentioned," Sherlock said. He slowly nodded, his gaze darting around the room as if he were picking up pieces of a puzzle with them and putting it all together. "So she lures you in with this kind of training after mentioning the Yakuza and how much of a danger they were in Japan. Especially Tokyo, that's where the Inagawa-kai syndicate resides... and you found the prospect of knowing how to defend yourself thrilling."

I shrugged helplessly. "I didn't quite understand why. It was the first real spark I'd ever really felt. It was like the very mention of dangers that could take my life is what it took to make me feel like I had one—like I was _alive._ And, I won't lie... with the training to defend myself, it gave me an excuse to go to more dangerous parts of Japan."

"You would go hoping to get mugged or something?" Sherlock asked.

I nodded. "Didn't realize it at the time, but yeah. Too bad getting robbed in Japan is very unlikely, especially if you look like a tourist."

Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nostrils. "So then, what happened? What caused you to leave?"

"The Inagawa-kai clan tracked Miyako down," I said. "They found out that the assassins they'd been dealing with were all _her_ students. She's send three of them at the families; two of them died after killing a few of the clan, but the last one they caught alive. Aoi, was his name—er, well, his _nickname._ Miyako gave us all different names to go by in class and never kept records of our actual identities... I thought it was some weird thing to do with the culture at first, but, well... It was for something else entirely. Anyway, Aoi, he was in the Aikido class with me—but I had no clue he was getting special training like I was. Aoi was... he was _wrong._ He enjoyed the prospect of violence too much; not the potential danger of it, but causing harm to others. I never understood what he was doing in Aikido because I could read it on his face the first time we sparred."

"Psychopath? Sadist?" Sherlock said.

"Both, probably," I muttered. "Miyako didn't care for him too much, but apparently he was skilled in fighting or she'd never take him as a private student. When the Inagawa-kai clan caught him, he spilled everything. Where Miyako was—her new alias, her job, and... her last remaining student that she was fond of."

"You," Sherlock guessed.

I nodded. "They sent Miyako a message along with the top joint of Aoi's pinky finger. They knew she didn't care about him, but they basically threatened that if she didn't stop what she was doing... I'd receive a far worse fate."

"Is this when she told you?" Sherlock asked. "That you were one of her 'assassins?'"

"Yeah," I said with a long sigh. "She told me that though that was her initial intention for me, she'd decided against sending me after the family since we became friends. That was why she took Aoi as another student. She told me that I had to leave Japan—go back home since I could work from here. After all, they never figured out my identity. I still had time to get away..."

"You think that they forced her to start working with them again," Sherlock said softly. "That it was like what Zhi Zhu tried to do with Soo Lin."

I nodded and shook my head. "If I hadn't pressed—if it wasn't for me—"

"She could be dead," Sherlock interjected. "You showing up caused a lull in her sending all these students after one of the notorious crime syndicates in the world. They would have found out eventually and because they knew that she had attachment to you, they decided to use that instead of jumping to killing her."

"I guess so," I said. "But—"

Sherlock gripped my shoulder, stopping me mid-sentence.

"Max," he said sternly. "Take if from someone who can see things from every possible angle. You did everything you could, and you did everything right. The Yakuza isn't an organization you can just take on."

"D'you think I could convince Miyako to come here?" I asked. "Perhaps she's be safer in London."

"You saw how easily a Chinese crime ring was able to take out three of their smugglers," Sherlock murmured. "Soo Lin left them behind in China, and they still tracked her down here."

"It's really annoying not being able to do anything about it," I admitted. "We still email, so at least I know she's okay, but all the same..."

Sherlock stared into my eyes for a moment as his lips pursed into a thin line. I could tell he was wrestling with something.

"What?" I said.

"Er, nothing..." His hand slipped from my shoulder and he got to his feet.

I frowned as I stood up as well. The detective walked a few paces away, seeming intent on diving into another box of books, but then he abruptly spun around and took two long strides to cover the distance between us. He stood gazing down at me, still with that look of conflict haunting his expression.

"You need to stop emailing her." Sherlock's words came out so fast I barely understood them.

"Sorry?" I spluttered.

"Listen to me, Max," Sherlock gripped my upper arms and stared at me as intensely as he had stared at John back at the skate park. "I can see how much Miyako means to you, but what you're doing is terribly dangerous. If the Inagawa-kai clan knows Miyako still cares about you, just because you're in London doesn't mean they won't attempt to get at you to get to her. By emailing her, you could leave a digital trail leading them directly to our local IP address, and therefore our _physical_ address. All it would take is for them to take her computer, her email log-in information, and send you an email with a virus attached to it. It might not even be an obvious virus either—you might not see a single change in your computer's functions and it could be stealing information of your current location."

I couldn't help but just blink at him for a few seconds as I tried to process everything he said. He's spoken so fast—so deliberately—it was like when he was analyzing or... or when he awkwardly told John he wasn't interested in dating him the first time the three of us ate together while spying on Jeff Hope.

Before I could answer, Sherlock's eyes suddenly lit with concern and he lowered his face down and even closer to mine.

"Have any of her recent messages seemed off?" he asked. "Did you notice anything strange—any code she might leave only for you that would indicate that it wasn't her or she was being forced to write it?"

"N-no," I stammered. "Sherlock—"

"I need to see your laptop," the detective insisted.

"Sherlock, what about the case?" I asked.

Sherlock released me and started heading toward the stairs. "It won't take me long to search your computer for viruses."

"Wait!" I called, scrambling to follow him. "Sherlock, Miyako was certain that coming to London would keep me safe! And she didn't have a problem with emailing! They don't know who I am!"

Sherlock reached the top landing and was already striding toward my door. I went into a sprint so I could clasp my hand over his when it gripped the knob.

"Think about it," I pressed. "Why would she think it was safe to email me if it _wasn't?_ She worked with these people for years—she knows how they tick—some of her students even took out some key members!"

Sherlock didn't even blink. "She could be under the impression that she can keep away from them. I'm guessing she immediately went into hiding after you left and hopefully still is. But if anyone from her old clan found her, then they have a direct line to you."

"If they have her then they don't need me," I said. "Even if she got caught, they would kill her—"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "No, they would have killed her after finding Aoi if they wanted her dead. Instead they used you as a threat to keep her in line. She is responsible for the deaths of some of their key members, as you said. Why _wouldn't_ they want her dead? Because they _need_ her for something. And if you're the only person that she cares about enough to try and shelter from the Yakuza, then you're their ticket to controlling her."

Sherlock put a hand to my collar bone and firmly pushed me away from him, but not hard enough to cause me harm.

"You're too close to this Max," Sherlock said. "It's when you first discovered your true self and Miyako is the one who helped you. You don't want to let that go, and that's understandable. But you need to look at all of this, _really_ look. I know you can, you're the smartest woman I've met."

With that, he glanced over me one more time before entering my room.

I tried to wrap my head around everything Sherlock told me on top of the compliment he'd dropped. Being called the smartest woman he'd ever met carried a hefty weight considering the type of man the detective was. I swallowed and stepped into the room after him.

My bedroom consisted of two parts: one third was the double bed with the soft green sheets and blankets along with a wooden dresser and mirror, and the other two thirds was my studio. The walls were covered in my story-boarding and random panels of my manga that I was trying to put into proper order. There were notes tacked here and there, some in-depth and specific, others as vague as "Kaz likes pudding."

My desk was large and had a portion that could tilt to allow easier drawing. There were compartments attached to the back of it with slots that held various art supplies and reference books. There were pencils scattered around and several crumpled balls of paper were overflowing from the small wired bin near the door.

I didn't like anyone being in my studio. It felt to me like it was allowing someone to step into a portion of my soul. John and Sherlock both knew that I didn't enjoy them coming fully into my room even when it wasn't when I was working. However, in that moment, Sherlock didn't seem to care in the least as he strode purposefully across the soft beige carpet and snagged my laptop from where it had been sitting at the end of my bed. He then turned and sat down on the edge of the mattress and flipped up the computer's lid.

"Password," he demanded.

"I'm not telling you that," I said.

"Doesn't matter, it'll just take me a few more minutes is all." Sherlock began typing away on the keyboard.

"Sherlock, stop this," I pleaded.

"I just gave you all the reasons why I can't," Sherlock replied. "Surely you can see the logic in this Max."

I stood in front of him as he kept typing. I hadn't thought about any of the things he'd mentioned before—not once. Was it true that I was just too close to this matter to look at it properly? Was I so attached to Miyako and communicating with her that I'd turned a blind eye to the possibility of the Inagawa-kai clan tracking me down here? Miyako had never told me why they were after her, and Sherlock had a point that it was weird she wasn't killed.

"Damn," I breathed.

Sherlock glanced up at me with a perked brow, waiting.

"Give it to me, I'll type it in," I said, reaching down and grabbing the computer.

While still leaving it on Sherlock's lap, I crouched down and typed in my password. Once the system began booting up, I turned it back around to face him.

As Sherlock promised, he only took a few minutes before he exhaled a long breath and closed the laptop's lid.

"You're clean," he said.

"I told you—" I began.

"This does not mean that what I said isn't true," Sherlock interrupted. He glared at me from beneath those long lashes of his. "You can send your friend one last email: tell her it's too dangerous for you to keep in contact with her."

I took a small step back from him. "You're acting like you have all the say in this."

Sherlock put my laptop aside and stood up from the bed. I was uncomfortably aware of how much taller than me he was. I tried to take another step back, but he caught me by the arm.

"This isn't just _your_ life, Maxine," he said in a dangerously low voice. I was shocked he used my full name. "You share this flat with two other people, including your own brother. If those kind of people come here for you, there's no guaranteeing that we won't be caught in the crossfire."

The detective had a point, much to my dismay. I adverted my gaze from him and jerked free from his grip; he didn't try to grab me again. I loosed a long exhale through my nostrils and shook my head.

"I'm... I didn't expect this from myself," I muttered.

"The emotional attachment? No, neither did I," Sherlock said, his voice equally hushed.

In that moment, I noticed that I wasn't certain if he meant the emotional attachment I had for Miyako, or perhaps some emotional attachment Sherlock had for me. I raised my head to see he was still peering down at me as if I were some complex problem he was trying to solve.

"I'll send the email," I promised.

"And do _not_ open any others she sends your way," Sherlock said. "No matter what the subject line—no matter how much you might think it's really her."

"Sure," I said with a tight nod.

"It might be wise to delete that email address of yours all together," Sherlock added. "Switch any accounts you have linked to it over to a new one from a different site. You can use the domain from my website if you like."

He began to leave my room and I was a bit surprised by how... odd I felt. There was a storm raging within me of icy dismay about not being able to talk to Miyako anymore—to make sure she was safe; then along with it was a strange warmth that I wasn't familiar with stemming from Sherlock's actions. Was he really just so determined to keep everyone in the flat safe or...

"Sherlock," I suddenly said.

The detective paused in my doorway and glanced back with one brow raised. "We need to get back to the books, Max," he said. I was oddly happy he was using my nickname again.

"Downstairs... when I first told you about all of this... the second I mentioned emailing Miyako, you _knew_ this was a threat," I said while folding my arms. "You made this face and then almost didn't tell me to stop."

"Er, well, I guess I was still putting all the pieces—" Sherlock began.

"Mm, it's not like you, not at all," I interjected. "You don't take long to figure something out, and even if you were still realizing how dangerous it was, you wouldn't have tried to dismiss it, you would have told me to be quiet or something equally brash and abrupt."

"I don't—" Sherlock tried again, turning to fully face my now.

"So why did you hesitate? Why did you try and say it was nothing at first, then cave and tell me to stop?" I went on. "One thing that is nice about spending the last few months with you, is that I now know just how much we have in common, Sherlock. You were actually thinking about letting me continue and potentially leading some of the Inagawa-kai clan here so it could be a brand new case for you. More bad guys to chase and catch."

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut now; I was astonished that he actually looked a bit _sheepish._ I had just pulled a Sherlock on Sherlock.

"Yes, well... as I told you, it would have been irresponsible, it's more than just your life and I suppose... a new case for me," the detective said while avoiding my eyes. "John would have shot me at least in the leg if he found out I willingly allowed you to put yourself in danger... and besides, I promised I wouldn't tell him and if Inagawa-kai clan members showed up on our doorstep that might give it away."

I tilted my head. "We're friends, aren't we?" I realized out loud.

Sherlock's eyes finally flicked back to mine. "I _did_ introduce you to Sebastian as my friends, you and your brother."

"Yeah, but that was to annoy him," I replied. "He was a bully back in uni to you, so throwing the fact that you have companions at him was fun."

"Sure it was, but I... I still meant it," Sherlock said indignantly. "Is it so hard to believe I can make friends?"

"When we first told you about Mycroft abducting us, you were shocked when I called him a _friend_ of yours," I pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged in amendment.

"I guess I'm just... honored," I said with a small grin. "To be a friend of the great Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't let it go to your head," Sherlock warned while pointing at me. Then he gestured for me to follow him. "C'mon. Books to go through."


	16. The Blind Banker, Part 6

_Maxine_

Later in the day, Sherlock and I had gone through more books than I could count. I eventually got sick of the clutter and put the already-checked books into neat piles on one end of the room while scolding the detective every time he tossed another book to the floor. So far, we hadn't found anything that made sense with the code.

I was taking a break and putting some tea on, eager to have Sherlock try Royal Milk Tea—a recipe I fell in love with from Japan. As I partially filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove, I heard Sherlock muttering to himself.

"A book that everyone would own."

I turned to see him going to his own bookcase and pulling down three books from random spots. I was able to see the first two were the _Concise Oxford English Dictionary_ while the other was a copy of the Holy Bible.

"Fifteen. Entry one," Sherlock said, flipping open the dictionary first.

Whatever he saw there wasn't anything useful, given how Sherlock slapped it close and plopped it back on the bookcase without bothering to push it back in its previous spot. He seemed to have the same luck with the other two books. As he grunted in irritation and tossed them aside.

"It was a clever thought," I told him.

From the stairwell came the sound of a door closing. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair to ruffle it on end just before John stepped into the flat. He had gotten back from work about fifteen minutes ago and after checking to see if we found anything new, immediately retreated to his room. Now he was in fresh clothes—fancy ones at that. I raised a brow at him but before I could ask about his attire, Sherlock spoke up.

"I need to get some air," he said. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've, er, got a date," John replied with a smug smile.

"What?" Sherlock and I said in unison.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," John said.

"That's what _I_ was suggesting," Sherlock said. "Well, with Max that makes three, but—"

"No it wasn't," John interrupted, "...at least I hope not."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and his sulky expression nearly made me crack a smile.

"Where are you taking her?" the detective demanded.

"Er, cinema," John replied.

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," Sherlock scoffed.

"C'mon, Sherlock," I said as I added the Assam tea leaves to the kettle. "Let him have his date."

" _Thank_ you, Maddie," John said pointedly while shooting a look at Sherlock.

Sherlock got up out of his chair and rummaged in his trousers' pocket as he approached my brother. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to John while tilting his head down for a moment as if to watch his step. While he blocked his expression from John under that head of curly hair, at my angle I caught the small smirk tugging his lips.

"Why don't you try this?" he suggested.

John took the paper and examined it. I left my tea to steep and came over to look over his shoulder to see the paper was actually a strip of a poster. It was advertising something called the Yellow Dragon Circus with a telephone number of the Box Office. I frowned, wondering where in the world Sherlock got this; he'd been in the flat with me all day.

"In London for one night only," Sherlock declared.

John gave a small chuckle and gave the paper back to the detective. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice," he said.

Sherlock gave him a smile that told me John was going to see a circus show tonight and knowing Sherlock, it wasn't because he thought it was a good idea for a romantic date.

* * *

 _John_

I still wasn't certain _how_ Sherlock convinced me this was a good idea, but I had to admit, Sarah's excited expression was starting to make me wonder if the detective really knew what he was doing when it came to date ideas.

"It's _years_ since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah confessed with a gleeful smile. She looked absolutely lovely tonight. The chilly weather still called for her to wear an overcoat, but when I'd gone to pick her up I'd gotten to glimpse her evening gown.

"Right, yes!" I said with a nervous laugh. "Well, it's... a friend recommended it to me. He phoned up."

"Ah," Sarah replied. "What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it," I admitted.

I was pleased that Sarah had forgiven me for falling asleep on the job today—even more pleased it landed me a date with her—but I couldn't help but feel a small sense of tension in my shoulders. It could be Sherlock was merely trying to be a good friend; hell, even Maxine had jumped in to really drive home the idea of this being a good date. Still, though...

We paused just outside the building to look at a large number of paper lanterns strung outside the entry hall.

"I think they're probably from China!" Sarah exclaimed.

"Yes, I think... I think so, yes," I said, feeling a small grimace coming on. " _There's_ a coincidence," I added under my breath.

Inside the Box Office, a manager is standing behind a counter and just finishing up giving some tickets to the customer in front of us. As they thanked the woman and stepped farther into the building, I led Sarah up to the counter and smiled at the manager.

"Hi. I have, er, two tickets reserved for tonight," I said.

"And what's the name?" the woman asked pleasantly.

I began to take out me wallet from my jacket. "Er, Holmes."

The manager began to rifle through a small box with envelopes inside it. After a moment, she pulled one free and examined it.

"Actually, I have four in that name," she said.

I blinked. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two," I insisted.

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself and Max as well."

My head snapped up from the envelop and I whirled to see Sherlock and Maxine walking in from around the corner. Sherlock's green eyes found Sarah and he went to her to offer his hand.

"I'm Sherlock," he said. With a small gesture of his head toward Maxine, he added, "This is Maxine, John's younger sister. Figured we could do a little double-date."

Maxine responded with a small wave. She was wearing dark pants and some slim black boots that looked like they were built more for hiking rather than going to a formal event. Her navy blue coat shrouded whatever top she might have on and her yellow scarf was around her neck as usual. Her hair looked like she'd actually paid a bit more attention to it than just running a comb through the ginger strands and there was a small touch of makeup around her eyes.

It might not look like much to anyone else, but to me, this was Maxine really going the extra mile to doll herself up.

Sarah took Sherlock's hand and shook it awkwardly. "Er, hi," she greeted.

"Hello," Sherlock said before flashing her a fake smile and walking deeper into the building.

"So... you're John's sister?" Sarah said to Maxine. "I didn't know he had one. I'm Sarah."

"I—er, well, if you recall, I was a touch tired today," I muttered as Maxine perked a brow at me.

"Are you the one who kept him up with the books?" Sarah asked with a small laugh.

Maxine shook her head and pointed to where Sherlock vanished. "That'd be our flatmate," she said before following after him.

"Oh," Sarah said, clearly surprised.

I let out an exacerbated exhale through my nostrils. I _really_ should have seen this coming.

* * *

 _Maxine_

I stood next to Sherlock and John a few steps up the stairs leading into the main room. Sarah had stepped off to freshen up before the show started, which left us alone to deal with John's wrath.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" he demanded of Sherlock.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It _fits,_ " Sherlock insisted. "The Tong sent an assassin to England..."

"...dressed as a tightrope walker," John finished the sentence for him with stinging skepticism. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?" Sherlock pressed. "Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of the country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look around the place."

"Fine." John flexed his fingers in a gesture stating he was giving up. "You do that; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"We need your help," Sherlock said sternly.

" _We?_ " John echoed; then he glanced between Sherlock and me. "Oh. Oh, no. You're _not_ dragging Maddie into this."

"Not your say, Johnny," I said, staring at him without yield.

"This is _dangerous,_ " John snapped.

I grinned lightly. "That's why I'm doing it."

I was still getting used to being open about my new hobby of pursuing peril and clearly so was John. He blinked rapidly and took a small step back.

"So not only do I have to somehow assist with this scheme of Sherlock's, but I have to worry about you the entire time too?" he said. "I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like _what?_ " Sherlock demanded.

John blinked again and stared at the detective. "You _are_ kidding."

"What's so important?" Sherlock asked tightly.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date," John replied. "D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to..." He trailed off and his thumb ran over his fingertips; he seemed to be trying to find the right words and he shot me a nervous glance.

"What?" Sherlock pressed.

John's expression pinched with lost patience and frustration and his next words came out much louder. "While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!"

His timing was impeccable, for at that exact moment Sarah came around the corner to join us. John turned to her and smiled awkwardly. Judging by Sarah's expression, she either didn't hear it or she was doing a good job not letting it show.

"Heyyy..." John greeted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to head up the stairs. He gripped my hand to pull me along after him and I nearly tripped on the steps, not at all prepared for it. He did state we were going to be acting as a couple here to better blend in and explain our appearance to Sarah—a double-date as he had told her. However, I still wasn't used to the detective showing... affection. Of course, it was a tad hard to call his hand-holding affectionate. His face was schooled into neutrality and he didn't even look at me as we went to find our seats.

In the performance area, there was a stage on the side of a large hall with heavy-looking red curtains that were closed. However, when I examined the rest of the expansive room, it didn't appear like the stage itself was going to be used. A circle of candles were laid out in the middle of the floor about ten meters in diameter and the room was dimly lit. All of the patrons were gathered around the circle, but there were no provided seats. There was plenty of room for all of us, so I couldn't help but wonder if they limited the amount of tickets.

John and Sarah stood side-by-side near the front of the ring of people. I was glad we were up toward the front; no seats meant I had to rely on my height to see over anyone in front of me. I was on John's other side, but back about a step so I could hover close to Sherlock. The detective was just behind my brother and his date and he had his back to them. He was examining the ceiling and the rest of the room with his green eyes sharp and calculating.

"You said circus," John muttered to us so Sarah couldn't hear. "This is _not_ a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is..." He grimaced with distaste. "... _art._ "

I made a face and John waved me off before I could open my mouth. I supposed to some people, art could be anything, but I took offense to him calling this setup such.

"This is not their day job," Sherlock replied quietly over his shoulder.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John muttered. "They're _not_ a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers."

A rhythm began to pound toward us; someone was tapping on a small hand drum, signaling the start of the performance. Sherlock turned around and took a step closer to me so that I didn't have to be stuck behind my brother where I couldn't see in order to stay by the detective's side. John cast us a small glance at which Sherlock returned with a quirked eyebrow as if to say, _What? It's part of the act, I have to be close to her._ John exhaled in defeat and looked forward again.

Into the center of the circle strode an ornately-costumed Chinese woman with a heavily painted face. If I could recall correctly, the style was traditionally known as the Opera Singer. She stared around imperiously at the audience before raising a hand in the air. The riff of the drum died off and the Opera Singer then walked across the circle to a large, bulky object shrouded in a cloth. The woman gripped the sheet and pulled it back with one, fluid flourish to reveal an antique-looking crossbow on a stand.

With practiced delicacy, the Opera Singer picked up a long wooden arrow with white feathers decorating one end and a lethal metal point at the other. She showed it to the crowd wordlessly before fitting it into place in the crossbow. When she straightened up, she pulled a single white feather from her headdress and once again showed her possession to the audience. Toward the back of the crossbow was a small metal cup and she gently dropped the feather into it.

With a startling _SNAP_ the crossbow was triggered and the arrow was loosed. It pierced through the arrow at blinding speed across the room and embedded itself in a large painted board on the other side of the circle. Sherlock and I had followed the arrows progress, but apparently the rest of the crowd had been too shocked by the initial sound of the crossbow firing. They looked to where it was now and I saw Sarah turn back to John and give a nervous but excited laugh as she put a hand to her chest.

Traditional music started and the audience applauded as a new character entered the circle. He wore chainmail and an ornate mask over his head to conceal his face. Silently, he held out his arms to the sides and two men stepped forward and began to attack heavy chains and straps to him. They folded his arms in front of him and bound them into place before backing him up to stand against the board with the target to chain him to it.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock murmured.

I grimaced as John and Sarah turned to look at him.

"Hmm?" John prompted.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," Sherlock explained. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

"If he doesn't, well..." I furrowed my brow and wondered if that would be considered murder or manslaughter in court.

The Opera Singer loaded another arrow in the crossbow. The men across the circle attached more padlocks and chains before pulling everything tight and yanking the man's head back against the board. He let out a cry and the men looped the chains through solid metal rings on board to secure the warrior. Once again, he cried out; it was difficult to discern whether it was out of discomfort of thrill.

The men finished up and stepped away from the board to leave the warrior to his fate. The music began to build and there was an abrupt crash of cymbals. Sarah jumped and clutched John's arm out of fright.

"Oh, God!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry." She laughed in embarrassment and gripped my brother's arm with her other hand as well.

I started to wonder if she'd done that on purpose as John laughed too and they smiled with delight at one another. Sarah let one hand fall, but she kept her other arm twined in his.

The Opera Singer picked up a small knife from beside the crossbow and displayed it to the audience.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," Sherlock breathed.

I started wondering what sandbag he was talking about but then the Opera Singer reached up to a small sandbag hanging on a long cable overhead. I hadn't even seen it; I must be too distracted with how Sarah was acting around my brother. Perhaps John wasn't the only protective sibling in our family.

The Opera Singer stabbed the blade into the bottom of the sandbag and its contents began to spill out. The warrior was crying out again; this time with clear effort as he began to tug at his chains. The sandbag's cable was looped over a pulley and a metal ball was attached to the other end. As the sand kept pouring out of the bag the weight lowered toward the bowl at the back of the crossbow. The warrior managed to get one hand free, but that wasn't going to be enough to save him if he didn't hurry.

I could sense the sudden apprehension rise in the crowd around me. John and Sarah were staring at the weight lowering toward the bowl nervously as it crossed paths with the sandbag on its way up. They looked back to the warrior to see him get his other hand free. He began to pull at the chains around his neck with rising urgency.

A hand suddenly closed around mine and pulled me to the side. I blinked and looked around to find Sherlock leading me swiftly out of the crowd. His expression was playful as he cast a small smirk back at me. I had no idea why he was giving me such an odd look, but I went along with him willingly, guessing he wanted to use the distraction of the show to look around.

As Sherlock pulled me around the outer edge of the circle toward the stage, I turned my head to keep watching the show.

The weight was now only a meter above the bowl and I could see Sarah clung tightly to John's arm with a anxious grimace. The warrior yelled loudly with furious effort as the weight drooped closer and closer down to his immediate death. Just as it reached the lip of the bowl, the warrior loosened the chains around his neck.

With an ear-shattering _SNAP,_ the weight reached the bowl and loosed the arrow. It streaked across the room with sinister intent, however with a split second to spare, the warrior yanked himself free of the chains and ducked down. The arrow slammed into the board where his head had been a heartbeat before.

By then, Sherlock and I reached a small hall that most likely led backstage. He released my hand and his face returned to normal as applause broke out from the audience we left behind. I suddenly understood.

"If anyone saw us leaving, you wanted to make it look like we were going to go snog or something," I said.

The detective glanced at me. "You could have at least smiled back to make it more convincing."

"I was a little too weirded out by your smug smirk, so forgive me," I muttered as we made our way up and onto the stage.

It was even more dimly lit than the area outside. There were racks of costumes and other props scattered about. I spied the chainmail armor and mask hanging on a stand toward the back wall and was almost convinced it was another warrior like the one that avoided the crossbow. Beyond the thick curtains, I heard the applause come to a halt and a woman's voice- the Opera Singer I presumed- spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider."

Sherlock and I exchanged a knowing look before swiftly going to the curtains to peer out to the performance area. From the ceiling descended a masked acrobat. He rolled through the air as a broad red band of fabric unraveled from around his waist. Just before he hit the floor, he halted and hovered parallel to the ground. Delicately touching down on the floor, the acrobat removed the band from around his waist and split it to reveal that it was made up of two strips of material.

Wrapping them around his arms he then ran around the circle before taking his weight on the bands, lifting into the air and soaring around the circle several feet above the ground with the red bands streaming behind him. The audience gazed at the display with slack jaws.

"Well, well," Sherlock breathed.

"Zhi Zhu," I murmured. We were pressed together to watch the display without parting the curtains too much. He twitched a little when I spoke and I looked up to see my breath must have gone over the skin of his neck. "Sorry."

Before Sherlock could reply, the sound of a door opening came our way. We both instantly bolted to take cover, our footsteps swift but silent. Sherlock pushed himself through the middle of the clothes on one of the racks while I slid beneath one of the tables toward the back with less lighting near it. The Opera Singer strode calmly across the stage to one of the other tables and picked up a mobile phone to check it.

There was a metallic clattering sound and I bit my lip as I looked over to see Sherlock managed to knock one of the wire hangers down off the rack. The Opera Singer heard it as well, for her head snapped around and she narrowed her painted eyes. Sherlock was out of sight still but the woman still came over toward the rack. At first, I thought she was going to investigate; then she just kept on walking to leave the stage.

I loosed a breath of relief and crawled out from my hiding spot.

"Max," Sherlock whispered sharply.

Curious, I went around the clothes rack to his side. The detective had found a bag on the floor and inside were several cans of spray paint. Yellow Michigan Zinc paint to be specific.

"Found you," Sherlock sang quietly.

He reached down and gripped one of the cans; probably to bring as evidence to Dimmock, I assumed. With a small gesture of his hand, he pushed back through the clothes to get back to our search. Before I followed, I decided to snag one of the cans as well.

When I emerged from the clothes, Sherlock had gone to a table that was laden with mirrors of various shapes and sizes. Sherlock shook his paint can and sprayed a horizontal streak across one.

"Is that necessary?" I sighed. "You know this has to be the right stuff."

Before Sherlock could answer, we both saw something that made us whirl and brandish our paint cans like proper weapons: the suit of armor we passed earlier began to _move._ It was no longer on its stand and someone was wearing it. The man charged at us, brandishing a large knife. Sherlock instantly darted in front of me to gain the warrior's attention, expertly dodging the blade's lashing edge.

I stepped deftly to the side and started to shake my can of paint after tossing the cap to the side. The sound alerted the warrior to my presence and he turned his head toward me. Sherlock took full advantage of his distracted state and slammed his own can of paint hard down on the man's elbow. I assumed that the detective was trying to disarm our assailant but the warrior only grunted and responded by kicking Sherlock hard in the stomach toward the curtains.

As the warrior turned his attention toward me, I planted my feet in an Aikido stance and waited with narrowed eyes. The man lunged at me, flashing his knife toward my center. The second he was within reach, I twisted my body to avoid the attack and sprayed the yellow paint in his face. It coated the mask and the man behind it yelled in discomfort and surprise; it had to have gotten in his eyes.

Sherlock got back to his feet and was at my side, panting.

"Good thinking," he rasped.

I shrugged just before the man turned around to face us again. I could see rapidly blinking eyes fluttering in the holes of the mask and grinned. However, my smugness was short-lived, for the warrior barreled forward with vicious intent. He twisted and rammed his shoulder into Sherlock before swinging out his arm to crack me across the side of the head with the back of his armored fist. I crashed to the ground, starts sprouting across my vision.

After shaking my head a few times, I looked over to see the warrior had abandoned his knife to clamp his hands around Sherlock's throat. The detective managed to knock the man's hand away from his neck and then sprayed more paint into the man's face. I wondered if blinding the assailant didn't work, perhaps the fumes would make him too foggy to fight. Just as I got to my feet, Sherlock surged his body upward to shove the man away.

The warrior fell onto his back but he then used the momentum to raise his legs and roll forward to flip to his feet once again. Without giving Sherlock the chance to fully stand, he took a flying leap at the detective, spinning as he went. The man's feet struck Sherlock so hard in the chest, it sent him soaring backward through the curtains and straight over the edge of the stage.

I brandished my paint can again and sprinted at the man but my hurried footsteps must have given me away. He whirled around and caught me by my upper arms; his grip was so hard it made my yelp in pain. The warrior spun me in a circle before tossing me after Sherlock as if I weighed nothing.

Yelling, I was flung out of the curtains and landed hard on top of something that was awkward but strangely softer than the hard floor I had been expecting. Of course, the fact that it grunted when I crashed atop it confirmed that it wasn't the floor at all. Pushing my torso up by my arms, I looked down to see Sherlock beneath me, his face pinched with pain.

"Sorry," I said just before I heard someone land directly behind me.

When I looked over my shoulder, I saw the warrior had jumped out from behind the curtains after us. The audience began to scream and shout as they scrambled to get away; most likely because the armored man had the knife again. I was trying to find the breath that had been knocked from me in order to get up and defend myself and Sherlock, but before the warrior could take a step, John came charging in and shoved him against the stage. The warrior stumbled and then snapped out a swift kick that caught John in his center and sent him stumbling across the room.

I managed to roll off of Sherlock and now stood at an awkward crouch at the detective's side, still panting. I had lost my can of paint when I was tossed, so now I reached for a new weapon: the dagger in my boot. With deft fingers, I lifted the hem of my pant leg and gripped its hilt. The warrior discarded his knife and picked up something else that had been propped against the stage- a double-edged sword.

Glancing one more time at Sherlock, who was still too winded to hardly even move, I unsheathed my dagger from my boot and forced myself to my feet. There had been several times during training with Miyako that she would force me to try and fight back after knocking the breath out of me. She had said that being able to recover quickly could save my life one day; perhaps she was right.

With my dagger at the ready, I placed myself between the warrior and Sherlock and got into a defensive stance. The warrior paused for a moment, spotting my dagger and clearly surprised by it. He hesitated for one more heartbeat, then rushed forward while lashing out the sword.

I have never fought or even practiced against someone using a real sword—one that could cut into me and drain out all of my blood. However, as the blade came down toward me, I forced my mind to see not a lethal weapon- but Miyako's sparring stick. I had deflected her blows countless times with my dagger toward the end of our training together; I could do this now.

A long, slow breath exhaled from my pursed lips and I took one careful step forward while twisted my dagger and bracing myself for the weight of the hit. This man was bigger than Miyako and I guessed he swung harder too.

There was the scream of metal striking metal and I jerked my arm up while twisting my body around in the same motion. The sword was knocked back, but not before its tip left a shallow cut in my cheek. I grimaced as hot blood began to trickle down to my jawline; I would have to work on this move to accommodate for people larger than me.

The warrior staggered backward and I placed myself back into the stance for his next attack. However, before the man could gain his balance, Sarah came sprinting in with one of the massive arrows for the crossbow in her hands. She slammed the side of the metal end across the back of the warrior's head, forcing him to cry out in pain. Before he could react or even turn to face her, Sarah delivered a second blow on the same spot and the man slumped to the ground, grunting and on the brink of losing consciousness.

Sarah straightened up, breathless, as Sherlock finally managed to push himself off the ground. He leaned forward and and gripped the right shoe of the fallen warrior and pulled it off to reveal a tattoo of a black flower.

"Big surprise there," I rasped.

The rest of the performance area was abandoned. I went to Sherlock as he started to struggle to his feet and grabbed his arm to support him. John came over to us, his face still tight with pain as he grabbed Sarah's hand.

"Come on," he breathed, starting to pull her toward the exit.

Sherlock began to jog off ahead of them us. "Come on!" he called. "Let's go!"

I glanced back at the dazed warrior and gestured to him. "But shouldn't we—"

"Now, Max!" Sherlock shouted.

I let out a huff and trotted after them. "We could get information from him, don't you think?" I called.

Sherlock waved me off and kept running. The four of us kept running until we were out of the building and only then did we slow to a fast walk. Sherlock paused for only a moment to allow us to reach his side.

"Taking someone of the Black Lotus would lead to more problems than solving them," the detective explained. "I highly doubt we would get any information from him and we would incite more wrath from their organization—directly at _us._ Not worth it."

"We're also not officers," John pointed out. "Pretty sure us taking him in would be considered kidnapping..."

Sarah looked completely bewildered. She still had her hand in John's but her eyes were glossed over as she stared blankly ahead.

"Er, Johnny," I said, nodding toward her. "Is she...?"

John turned his head to see Sarah and his expression tightened with concern. "Sarah?"

"Huh?" Sarah looked around, blinking rapidly. "Ah. Sorry. I just—well, I wasn't expecting that." She laughed nervously.

"Yeah, that was my reaction the first time I met Sherlock too," I said and shot the detective a grin.

He rolled his eyes at me, but I could still see the small hint of a smug smirk tugging his lips.


	17. The Blind Banker, Part 7

_Maxine_

I was going to have Dimmock's office memorized at this point. After grabbing a cup of coffee, I headed back toward the main area just in time to see the Detective Inspector arrive. We'd gotten here when he was technically not on the clock, but of course with a job like his, I assumed he was always on call. He stormed right by me and into his office. I raised my brows at Sherlock, John, and the still confused-looking Sarah before turning to follow Dimmock.

The others weren't far behind me and once all of us were in the office, Dimmock glanced over his shoulder without stopping. I was going to guess this latest development didn't have him in a good mood.

"I sent a couple of cars," he said. "The old hall is totally deserted."

"Of course it is," I muttered under my breath before having another drink of coffee.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus—that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," Sherlock insisted.

Dimmock reached his desk and finally turned to face us. He looked exhausted; not physically—there were no circles under his eyes or stubble on his face—but instead like someone had been siphoning away his soul during this case. I glanced down at my cup and contemplated offering him some coffee.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John said. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," Sherlock pressed.

"Get _what_ back?" Dimmock demanded.

Sherlock bit his lip and adverted his gaze with clear frustration filling his expression. He'd told me about how he and John had gone online in an attempt to find the exact item, but came up with nothing. We still hadn't figured out the code with all the damn books in the flat, so...

"We don't know," John finally answered hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock said, deadpan.

Sherlock still wouldn't meet his eyes. I stepped closer to the detective's side and fixated my gaze on the Detective Inspector instead.

"We've uncovered a lot more than you have throughout this whole mess," I pointed out.

The cords on Dimmock's neck stood out and for a brief moment, I expected him to start shouting. However, he instead let out a long exhale and plopped down in his chair.

"Yeah, Miss Watson, I get that," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "Mr. Holmes... I've done everything you asked. Lestrade—he seems to think your advice is worth something."

Sherlock lifted his head at those words and gave a faint but proud smile.

"I gave the order for a raid," Dimmock said. "Please tell me I'll have _something_ to show for it—other than a massive bill for overtime."

I grinned and nodded approvingly at Dimmock. "Wait there, Detective Inspector. You look like you need some coffee."

* * *

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and went to examine the pictures on the mirror. Sarah was still with us, which I thought might be for the best. Miyako told me how these type of gangs worked and if someone saw her face and knew she was with us, well... she could be in danger on her own.

"They'll be back in China by now," John said as he politely helped Sarah with her coat.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," Sherlock replied. "We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous."

The detective moved closer to the photographs and stared at them intensely before running his fingers over the main picture of the painted brick wall John took on his mobile.

"Somewhere in this message it _must_ tell us," Sherlock murmured.

I came to his left side as John approached the right. The three of us eyed the pictures as if hoping mere staring would pry the answers free. I was fairly certain we'd gone through all of the books and none of them had provided a logical translation.

After a moment of silence, Sarah's voice sounded from behind us.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," she said.

John turned around instantly. "No, no, you don't have to go..." He glanced at our flatmate. "...does she?" Without waiting for a reply, he looked back at Sarah. "You can stay."

At the same time that John spoke those last three words, Sherlock said, "Yes, it would be better to study if you left now."

While the detective set a pointed stare on Sarah, John shot him a dark glare before turning back to her.

"He's kidding," my brother insisted. "Please stay if you like."

Sarah looked nervously toward Sherlock, who already turned back to the photographs with slightly tensed shoulders. I began to open my mouth to point out her potential danger in order to get Sherlock to let her stay without this weird tension he was throwing in, but then it seemed Sarah decided to accept John's invitation.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?" she asked with an awkward smile.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes in exasperation. "Ooh, God," he muttered.

I wasn't entirely certain what Sherlock's problem with Sarah was; she hadn't exactly done anything to wrong him except perhaps inadvertently distract John from the case—

"Ah... Sherlock..." I breathed when it clicked.

John had stepped away into the kitchen while Sarah peered at the piles and piles of books scattered around the flat.

"What?" Sherlock shot back in an irritated whisper.

"We'll talk about it later," I said. "For now, just behave."

"Behave?" Sherlock repeated indignantly.

"So this is what you do, you two and John," Sarah suddenly said, breaking off our whispered conversation. "You solve puzzles for a living."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected her tightly.

"Oh," Sarah said, clearly not prepared for Sherlock's cross tone.

"He helps the police when they're out of their depth," I said, remembering Sherlock describing his job to John and me on our first taxi ride together. "Which is nearly all of the time, apparently."

I saw Sherlock shift his posture a bit and though he hadn't cracked a smile, I could tell my words cheered him up, much to his irritation, most likely.

"That's... wow," Sarah said, smiling and laughing nervously. "Is their normally so much, er, fighting?"

I remembered tangling with the robed assailant in this very room not but a week ago with Sherlock.

"On occasion," I answered vaguely while casting a wary look toward John.

My brother was peering in the fridge; I had looked in there earlier that day and knew for a fact it was next to empty. John sighed and closed it before moving elsewhere in the hunt for food.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stepped away from the mirror and strode over to the desk which was scattered with photos, notes, and drawings of various pictograms. He began to rummage through them and Sarah moved toward him, her expression starting to transform from anxious to curious.

I frowned after them and wondered if I should help Sherlock with his notes or John with his hunt. However, the moment I took a step, my decision was made for me.

"Max, come look over these with me one more time," Sherlock insisted. I wondered if he was looking for an excuse to get Sarah to leave him alone.

"Oh!" John exclaimed before I could move. My brother had found a jar on one of the shelves of what looked like pickled onions and opened it to test the contents by his sense of smell. Given his twisted face, that sense was probably going to be useless for at least an hour.

"What are these squiggles?" Sarah asked. She'd come to look over Sherlock's shoulder and she now pointed at the paper the detective was looking at.

Sherlock lifted his head and his face was set as if he were trying very hard not to kill her in that moment.

"Numbers," I answered for him in hopes he wouldn't explode. "Er, an ancient Chinese dialect, to be specific."

"Oh, right!" Sarah continued to stare at the paper. "Yeah, well, of course I should have known that."

Glancing back into the kitchen I spotted John awkwardly filling a bowl full of Wotsits cheese puffs. I nearly laughed; he must be getting desperate. Then somewhere from behind me, I heard a door squeak. Looking over my shoulder I spotted Mrs. Hudson stepping into the flat with tray covered in a tea towel.

John's face illuminated with sheer delight as our landlady placed the tray on the kitchen table.

"I've done punch, and a bowl of nibbles," she announced in a whisper. When she removed the tea towel, it revealed a jug of punch with slices of fruit on top, two glasses, a bowl of crisps and another bowl presumably containing some sort of dip.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a _saint!_ " John told her softly.

"If it was Monday, I'd have been to the supermarket," Mrs. Hudson confessed, still in a hushed voice.

"No; thank you!" John beamed at her. " _Thank_ you!"

Glancing back toward Sherlock and Sarah, I saw neither of them seemed to notice Mrs. Hudson sneak in treats. Sarah was staring at the photographs on the mirror again and Sherlock was peering at more pictures on the table, one of which was the one of the brick wall. All of them were in clear evidence bags and part of me wondered if they were supposed to be in our flat.

"Max," he said suddenly, making me jump.

"Sorry?" I came to his side. "What?"

"The notes," Sherlock pressed. "Just... sit, will you?"

I peered down at his face, but he wasn't meeting my gaze. His expression is clearly uncomfortable, but I couldn't place why. Then Sarah was back and she leaned over to pluck the photograph of the brick wall off the table. The detective looked like he was about to commit murder as his jaw clenched and he fixated his glare on the spot the picture have been a moment ago.

"So these numbers—it's a cipher," Sarah said, oblivious to his rage.

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, his tone clipped.

"And each pair of numbers is a word," Sarah went on.

In that moment, Sherlock's expression relaxed into one of curiosity and he slowly lifted his head to look at her. "How did you know that?" he asked.

"Well, two words have already been translated, here," Sarah explained. She set the photo back on the desk and pointed.

Sherlock picked it up and stared while I went behind him and placed my hands on my knees to peer at it from directly over his shoulder. Written in fine pen, a word had been written across each of the first two sets of symbols on the photograph.

 _NINE. MILL._

"John," Sherlock said sharply.

"Mmm?" John looked around from the kitchen table.

Sherlock got to his feet so abruptly, he nearly knocked me over. I caught myself by grabbing his arm and regained my balance.

"Honestly," I breathed, but Sherlock was too far gone in the case to hear me now.

"John, look at this," he insisted. The detective slipped the photograph out of the evidence bag as John stepped out of the kitchen. "Soo Lin at the museum—she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!"

It was a bit surprising, to be honest. We had been so absorbed in all the books that we didn't bother going over the photographs again.

"Nine, mill," Sherlock read the words aloud.

John squinted at the picture. "Does that mean 'millions?'" he breathed.

"Nine million quid," Sherlock murmured. "For what?"

He turned and strode back to where he'd left his coat and scarf.

"Sherlock?" I said, frowning at him.

"We need to know the end of the sentence," Sherlock said.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

Sherlock began to yank on his coat. "To the museum; to the restoration room." He suddenly grimaced with annoyance. "Oh, we must have been starting right at it!"

"At-at what?" John stammered.

"The _book_ John," Sherlock snapped. "The _book—_ the key to cracking the cipher!" He brandished the photograph at my brother. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

With that, he started to turn toward the door.

"Sherlock, wait!" I yelled. "I'm coming with, just let me get my coat!"

"You're what?" John said.

I glanced back at him. "Last time the two of you went off without me and I missed a lot; it's not happening again!"

"But—Maddie, we need to talk about the circus show!" John insisted.

About the dagger, I'd assumed, and how I was so skilled with it.

"She learned Aikido in Japan, John," Sherlock said shortly. "Martial arts—she took classes and she's very good at it. Now you won't have to worry about her as much; you're welcome."

John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock grabbed my coat and threw it at me; I was still wearing my yellow scarf. I caught the coat and started pulling it on as I chased Sherlock out of the flat.

"Be back later!" I called over my shoulder.

I only managed to hear Johns exasperated sigh before the door closed behind us.

I blinked in the dreary sunlight, realizing I'd gone yet another night without sleep, but oddly enough I wasn't nearly as tired as I was when I spent all night plotting, writing, and drawing. Sherlock was like his own brand of caffeine, infecting me with energy.

The detective ran toward the street to hail a passing cab. "Taxi!" he called.

However, in his haste, Sherlock knocked his shoulder into a passing man so hard it made the passerby drop his book. He was tall and a touch imposing in my opinion. There was a woman at his side that seemed more concerned than her companion; her _husband_ according to their rings.

"Hey, du!" the man barked at Sherlock. "Siehst du nicht wo du hingehst?"

German. I didn't know German.

Sherlock picked up the fallen book and offered it back to the man. It was the London A-Z, which wasn't surprising; the couple must be tourists.

"Entschuldigen Sie, bitte," Sherlock said.

Apparently the detective _did_ know German. Was there anything he didn't know or have skill in?

The man snatched the book out of Sherlock's hand. "Ja, danke!" he replied with a venomous tone. I at least knew that one: Yeah, thanks. As the man turned away and put an arm around his wife's shoulders, he muttered more. "Und dann sagen die, dass die Engländer höflich sind!"

"What'd he say?" I asked softly.

"He said 'And they say the English are polite,'" Sherlock said, raising his arm and trying to get a cab again.

I shook my head. "You said sorry, didn't you?"

"'Course," Sherlock said, starting to walk down the road when the cab sails right on by us without stopping.

The detective was answering all my questions a bit offhandedly, as if he weren't really paying attention to the conversation. I knew his mind was fixated on getting answers that he now knew were so close. I could feel the excitement pouring off of him, but also the frustration when the street was suddenly void of taxis.

"I could phone one," I offered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer me, but suddenly his gaze was locked onto something down the street and over my shoulder. I turned to see an Asian couple standing on the corner over the road consulting the London A-Z. Looking back around, I saw Sherlock's pale green eyes narrow and sharpen.

"What?" I prompted. "You've figured something out- you always get that expression when you have. What is it?"

Without any explanation, Sherlock suddenly whirled and began to sprint back after the German couple.

"Please, wait!" he shouted. "Bitte!"

I ran after him, bewildered. What the hell was he doing? What sort of idea struck him to go running back to this unpleasant jerk?

The German couple paused and turned back with confusion. The man scowled when he saw who it was.

"Was wollt er? Was _will_ er?" the man grumbled.

Sherlock came to a halt before them just to snatch the A-Z out of the man's hands and turn away. He flipped it open and began to peer in it with his back to the tourists.

"Hey, du!" the man exclaimed. "Was macht du?"

"Minute!" Sherlock snapped over his shoulder before returning his attention to the book.

I suddenly understood. Of _course._ A book everyone would own.

"Gib mir doch mein Buch zurück!" the German tourist shouted angrily.

Sherlock ignored him, turning his back fully to the couple and opening the book. The German man waved his hand in exasperation before putting his arm around his wife and walking away.

"Page fifteen, entry one. Page fifteen entry one..." Sherlock murmured, flipping through the pages of the book.

I came to his side to peer over his shoulder just when he found it. The first entry on page fifteen read: _Deadmans Lane NW9._

"Dead man," I breathed.

"They _were_ threatening to kill them," Sherlock said. "It's the first cipher."

"The photo— Sherlock, with this we can—" I began.

"Yes." The detective looked at the photograph and then hurriedly began to flip through the pages.

* * *

 _John_

"Yeah! No, absolutely. I mean, well, a quiet night in's just-just what the doctor ordered!"

I laughed lightly at Sarah's words and glanced at her from my spot at the side table in the kitchen. She was standing nearby and grinning at me. Honestly, I couldn't believe she was still here- that all of that nonsense with the circus show didn't scare her off.

"Er, I mean, I'd love to go out of an evening and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters, you know, generally, but a girl can get too much," she went on.

Giggles wreaked havoc on my body at her words. The _luck_ I had. She was actually just shrugging this off with light-hearted humor.

"No, okay," I said while nodding in agreement.

For a moment, we merely smiled at one another, then Sarah glanced away bashfully with a small laugh.

"Hmm," I said, trying to think for a moment about what to say or do next, then I noticed that the nibbles Mrs. Hudson brought were running dangerously low. "Shall we get a takeaway?"

"Yeah!" Sarah agreed cheerfully.

After showing her a menu and getting her order, I called the Chinese place down the street for the delivery. When I hung up the phone, I went back to the table and sat down next to Sarah. She was frowning at her folded hands, as if contemplating something.

"So... you and Sherlock and... you're little sister?" she said.

I knew what she was getting at. "Yeah, um... it's a bit of a long story, actually," I admitted. "We— er— we met him around October. An old friend of mine set us up to be flatmates. Within three days, we already went through a case with him."

"A case being... this type of madness with Chinese gangsters?" Sarah asked.

I laughed again. "No, no, this is the first one with those. It was with this serial killer who was a cabbie."

Sarah's eyes lit up. "I think I saw that on the news!"

"Yeah." I nodded awkwardly.

"And that didn't... it didn't make you two want to find a different flatmate?" Sarah queried, meeting my gaze again. "I mean... it must be dangerous, from what I've seen."

I shrugged. "Uh, yes, it can be a bit... perilous at times."

Sarah peered at me thoughtfully. "Back at the show— you didn't seem to be expecting to see your sister be so..."

"Really, _really_ good with a dagger?" I finished for her. "No, no I really wasn't. All she told me was she took self defense classes in Japan."

Sarah frowned. "I guess I'm just trying to understand. You worry about her, that's clear—so why do you let her keep doing this?"

"I might be the older brother, but she's still an adult," I said. "I can't very well tell my twenty-seven-year-old sister she can't do something. Even if I did, it'd probably increase the chances of her doing it."

I turned my head to glare at the table. I'd been kicked _one_ time by that armored man and been done in. Yet somehow, my kid sister had faced off against him with a dagger while he had a damned sword. The way she's held herself- the confidence in her posture... I'd never seen anything like that in her before. Of course, I'd never seen her fight with anyone before...

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." Sarah began nervously.

"No, no, it's fine," I assured her. "Maddie just... she's always been a bit of a mystery to me and the second I think I got her figured out, she pulls a dagger out of her boot and parries away a sword like she's been doing it all her life."

Sarah laughed but cut off. "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh."

I smiled at her. "Don't worry about it. I think taking some humor out of all this is actually a bit helpful."

"Okay." Sarah returned my grin. "But—one last question—you call her Maddie, Sherlock introduced her as Maxine and then he calls her Max. So... what should I call her?"

Yet another laugh left me. "Ah, yeah, that must be confusing, now that I think about it. I guess just stick to Maxine for now."

"Got it," Sarah said. "Why do you call her Maddie? I understand 'Max' but..."

I smiled. "Well, when I was in high school, my sister was just starting grade school. We're eleven years apart, see. So one day I stayed late at school for a project and Maddie got upset that I hadn't come to get her yet; I used to, er, walk her home from school since hers was nearby." I glance away and rubbed the back of my neck in embarrassment.

"That's sweet," Sarah said, gripping my shoulder.

Her touch sent a small jolt through me and I had to swallow and clear my throat before continuing. "Maddie didn't really understand that there were certain things a six-year-old shouldn't do. So she ended up walking over to my school to get me. Meanwhile, I started to gather my things to leave- I hadn't realized how much time had passed and started to panic about going to get her. But on my way out, this kid stopped me near one of the exits... kids that I'd had to deal with before."

"Bully?" Sarah guessed.

I smiled wanly. "How'd you know?"

"Jerks tend to pick on those who are leagues above them in maturity and intellect," Sarah replied with a shrug.

Her praise caught me off guard and once again another jolt of the willies went through me; the _good_ kind of the willies. _Very_ good. I gave her a grin to show my appreciation before going on.

"Yeah, so they start pushing me around. But then in comes little six-year-old Maxine, yelling at them to stop," I said. "And they do, but I'm terrified they're going to do something to her. I told her to run, but it was like she couldn't hear me. She set her eyes on the other kid—Alec, was his name—and just reamed him."

"Reamed him?" Sarah echoed curiously.

I nodded. "Maddie always had a really good vocabulary for her age—she was way smarter than the rest of her class. So I'd imagine Alec had a hard time believing that this little girl was capable of such words."

"What did she say?" Sarah pressed. She was fully engrossed by now.

"I can't recall the exact words, to be honest," I admitted. "It happened so fast, and I wasn't prepared for any of it. But it was something along the lines of what you said, actually. Told him that he had no right to take whatever inner issues he was dealing with on someone who was clearly more intelligent and dignified than him and to scram before he had to tell all of his friends how he got a black eye from a grade schooler."

Sarah laughed. "She's got guts!"

I nodded again, smiling. "It seemed that most of our school found out about her scaring Alec off, because from then on, she came to get me at my school instead of the other way round; hers got out earlier anyway. When everyone saw how scared and apprehensive Alec was of her, they started calling her 'Mad Max' and she grew fond over it."

"Ah!" Sarah said with sudden realization. "That's where Maddie comes from."

"Yeah," I said. "It kinda just slipped out one day and stuck. But she doesn't let anyone else call her that- not even other members of the family."

Sarah was grinning again. "You two seem like you're close. It's nice to see siblings care so much about each other."

I sighed. "I just wished she stopped throwing herself into dangerous situations."

"Well, it does seem like she can handle herself," Sarah pointed out.

There was a sudden knock on the door.

"Ooh, blimey, that was quick," I said. "I'll just pop down."

I got up and began to head toward the kitchen door.

"Do you want me to lay the table?" Sarah asked.

I glanced back at the table which was still littered with Sherlock's paperwork and various experiments.

"Um, eat off trays?" I suggested.

"Yeah," Sarah agreed with a small look at the table and a chuckle.

"Yeah!" I agreed before going through the door and heading down the stairs.

When I opened the door I gave a smile at the Chinese man on the doorstep. He was wearing a jacket with his hood up, but given the still chilly weather of April, I didn't blame him.

"Sorry to keep you," I said, digging into my trouser pocket. "How much d'you want?"

"Do you have it?" the man asked.

I blinked and looked up with a frown. "What?" I assumed he meant the money for the delivery- but now that I looked he didn't seem to have any bags or boxes with him.

"Do you have the treasure?" the man pressed.

"I don't understand," I replied, starting to get a touch apprehensive.

However, before I could make a move, the man suddenly pulled out a pistol and slammed the butt of it against the left side of my head. I briefly saw the world tilt before I blacked out.

* * *

 _Maxine_

"Nine mill for jade pin dragon den black tramway."

Just after Sherlock read the fully translated message, he lifted his head and stared at nothing in particular, his eyes wide.

"Jade pin," I breathed. "Sherlock—we've seen—"

"Yes, yes we have," Sherlock said, smiling over at me. "C'mon!"

He shoved the picture and the book into his coat pocket before grabbing my hand and pulling me back toward our flat. I was pleased we didn't have to go all the way to the museum to finally decode the message; now that we know the item the Black Lotus were after and where it was, we could go to Dimmock and put this case to rest.

However, when we came bursting into the kitchen of the flat, it seemed things weren't going to be so easy.

"John!" Sherlock called. "John! We've got it!"

He was already in the living room and brandishing the book with triumph as I paused in the kitchen and glanced around.

"The cipher!" Sherlock went on. "The book! It's the London A to Z that they're using..."

The detective trailed off into silence and I assumed he noticed what I had.

"Are they not here?" I said.

When Sherlock didn't respond, I turned to see him gaping at something in the living room. I trotted to his side and stopped dead when I spotted what he was looking at.

On the left-hand window was the exact same Chinese numbers that had been left for Van Coon and Lukis; the numbers 15 and 1.

"Dead man," I breathed. "Oh God. Sherlock—they have John."

My heart was beginning to hammer in my chest and I took a step back from the window as if distancing myself would somehow make the threat illegitimate.

"Tramway," Sherlock said, hurrying over to the bookcase. He stared at the books on the shelf, eyes darting every which way. It was as if he'd lost his usual razor-sharp focus; like his mind was scrambled and panicked. "Oh, Christ."

I came to his side, trying to wrestle my own brain into submission. "They took him and Sarah—which is odd because with the other two they just killed them," I whispered to myself under my breath. "That's good—that means they're still alive—that means there's a chance..."

Sherlock glanced at me and I took that as a sign that he heard my words. They seemed to bring him some clarity, for when he turned back to the bookcase, he instantly found what he was looking for: a folding map of London. He went to the dining table and spread it out on the surface with slightly shaking hands. He ran his green eyes over it for perhaps two heartbeats before he stabbed his finger down on it at a particular spot.

"There," he declared and removed his hand before I could even see what he had been pointing at.

With that, he turned and headed out the door at a trot. I ran after him after shimmying my ankle slightly to feel the reassuring press of the flat of my dagger's blade against my leg.


	18. The Blind Banker, Part 8

_**A/N::: Sorry this is a tad late, and sorry it's a tad shorter than usual. I didn't space the chapters quite right, and this one concludes The Blind Banker case. However, next week you lucky darlings get The Great Game! I'm so excited to introduce Moriarty. In any case, enjoy the chapter!**_

* * *

 _Maxine_

In the tramway tunnel, I closed my eyes and controlled my breathing. This was something else that Miyako had trained me in—emptying myself of distracting emotions, calming myself to the point of being perfectly accurate.

Perfectly deadly.

"Don't do anything rash," Sherlock had told me on the cab drive over. "I know it's your brother, but let me do the first push—they don't even have to know you're there until it's too late for them."

"So... be an assassin," I had replied flatly.

Sherlock's smile was humorless. "Just be careful and be... unpredictable. You're good at that last bit."

The detective crouched beside me now and we peered down the tunnel at the large group of people surrounding John and Sarah. They were both tied to chairs, however the great crossbow from the circus act was there and it was pointing right at Sarah. I could make out my brother's anguished face in the dim lighting and wanting nothing more than to sprint in and stab the Opera Singer—or as we now knew—Shan, in the face.

"Ladies and gentleman," Shan said grandly to the other gangsters gathered around her. "From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act."

" _Please!_ " John shouted, straining against his binds.

"They think..." I whispered.

Sherlock merely nodded beside me. Yes, they thought my brother was Sherlock and that he had to know where their treasure was. Not good.

"You've seen the act before," Shan said, almost sadly. She had just placed something in Sarah's lap; I couldn't tell what it was from my spot. "How dull for

you. You know how it ends."

" _I'm not Sherlock Holmes!_ " John bellowed with rising panic.

"I don't believe you," Shan replied bluntly.

Sherlock gripped my shoulder briefly before he spoke out down the tunnel.

"You should, you know," he said.

Shan spun in time to see the detective flit across the tunnel to hide behind another shadow cast by what seemed like some kind of storage container.

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing like him," he went on.

I began to creep along the side of the tunnel and closer to some of the men toward the edge of the group. The dagger was tight in my hand, but Sherlock had asked me to avoid killing if I could; too much paperwork to deal with.

One of the thugs began to hurry toward the source of Sherlock's voice. Now that the two of us were on separate sides of the tunnel, this gave me a nice advantage. Everyone was focused on him; if I was careful, I could slip in and take out a few of them to get to Sarah and John.

"How would _you_ describe me, John?" Sherlock asked. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" John offered crossly.

Shan had lifted her pistol and was aiming it toward the same direction Sherlock's voice was coming from. I decided she would be a good target; if I could get at her and put my dagger to her throat, perhaps her men would stand down.

"That's a semi-automatic," Sherlock warned. "If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second."

"Well?" Shan pressed, clearly irate with being given a lesson on her gun right then.

"Well..." Sherlock's voice echoed from the darkness—even I couldn't place where he was. One of the men stormed toward the source, but the moment he got close, the detective appeared from behind him and thwacked a large metal pipe straight into the thug's gut. As the man collapsed, Sherlock slipped back into the shadows and went on. "...the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone._ Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you._ "

I wasn't entirely certain if that information was accurate, but clearly Shan thought so since she didn't fire. Sherlock once again burst out of the darkness and sprinted to the nearby burning dustbin and kicked it over. The flames sputtered out and wreathed our side of the tunnel in even more shadows. With the extra cover, I slinked forward, intent on reaching Shan and forcing her to release my brother.

Meanwhile, Sherlock reached Sarah and squatted down behind her to start undoing her binds. Unfortunately, someone spotted him before he could finish. One of the men ran over to the detective and looped a long red scarf around his neck. It had to be Zhi Zhu—the Spider that was Soo Lin's brother which we had contended with before.

I froze, suddenly forced into a decision. Sherlock cried out as he jumped to his feet and attempted to free himself, but just like back in Soo Lin's flat, he didn't seem to be a match for Zhi Zhu's strength—at least not when he was throttling the detective from behind. The cut sandbag was raising higher and higher as its contents emptied and the weight on the other end of the string was nearing the bowl to trigger the crossbow.

The crossbow was still pointed right at Sarah.

Sherlock was clearly in danger, but so was Sarah, and her predicament was a tad more imminent. I cast one look toward Sherlock, surprised by how difficult this choice was for me. Saving Sarah was a risk on Sherlock's life, but clearly it was the more logical choice. I bit my lip, then darted forward out of the shadows.

I gripped my dagger, ready to cut Sarah free as I slid behind her. However, before I could even reach forward, something hard slammed into the side of my head. I sprawled across the ground, dazed. When I twisted around, I saw one of the other thugs had ran in to face me. He wasn't armed, but he was a lot bigger than me.

There was a loud grunt behind me as Sherlock managed to break free of his chokehold. The detective ran forward, shoving my assailant aside, but Zhi Zhu came back like an angry snake. He looped his red scarf swiftly around Sherlock's neck twice before dragging him away.

John started struggling to move forward, but he was quite effectively bound to the chair he was seated on, which made his movements small and awkward. I forced myself to my feet again, but the man who struck me had recovered as well. He flung out a kick toward me, forcing me to jump backward to avoid it. I tightened the grip on my dagger and narrowed my eyes.

Miyako had taught me all the lethal and non-lethal areas to strike at on the human body. I knew where every artery was, every vital organ, every weakness to exploit in order to win against my opponents. I also knew where to hit in order to leave them alive. At the time, I thought it was the Aikido training bleeding in, but now I think it was a method Miyako used to gain information.

Regardless, tonight I was going to use it to subdue my opponent since Sherlock was so insistent on not killing anyone.

When the man lunged for me again, I ducked beneath his punch and moved toward Sarah in the same motion. I knew there was no time to cut her free—not before the crossbow fired or my attacker managed to pull me away again. I'd have to push Sarah down so the arrow just went over her head.

I saw John had made some progress toward us. He had lost his balance at some point and was now on the ground, However, like some kind of mudskipper, he was thrashing and jerking his way towards Sarah.

When I was close enough, I reached toward one of the legs of Sarah's chair. Just before I could fully close my grip around it, the thug darted out a hand and gripped me by the throat. With one, heavy swing, he tossed me aside, sending me sliding across the tunnel floor until I collided painfully with the wall. Either this guy was stupidly strong or I needed to start eating more Chinese.

Lifting my head, I spotted my opponent stalking toward me while Sherlock continued to be strangled and John continued to squirm his way toward Sarah. I pushed myself up and knew that even if there wasn't a man that seemed almost twice as tall as me in my path, that I would never make it to Sarah on time. The weight was a millimeter from the bowl on the crossbow.

However, right when it touched the silver cup, John intervened. H managed to free one of his feet and he delivered a sharp kick up at the crossbow. It shifted the weapon's position just as the arrow was loosed. It streaked across the tunnel and met a new mark: Zhi Zhu's stomach.

Sherlock had put some distance between himself and the Spider, allowing for the sharp tip of the arrow to bury into the acrobat's gut. Zhi Zhu stared at it before looking up blankly in pure shock. He let out a breathy groan before slowly toppling to the floor.

Gasping for breath, Sherlock got to his feet. However before I could see more, my own opponent rushed at me. I wasn't certain if I was their last ditch effort to control the detective or what, but when the thug made to grab my by the neck again, I twisted around and stabbed my dagger into his hand.

The blade went clean through to burst out the back of his palm and the man screamed in agony. I tore my dagger free and stepped back deftly to avoid any sort of retaliation; but it seemed the man was through with me. He and the rest of the thugs were fleeing out of the tunnel, their footsteps gradually growing fainter in the distance. Their leader, Shan, was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock seemed to be debating over following them, but then the muffled sobs of Sarah forced his attention elsewhere. The detective tore the red scarf from his neck and dropped to his knees beside her.

"It's all right," he soothed in a voice much softer than I realized he was capable of.

As Sherlock worked on freeing Sarah, I hurried over to John while hastily cleaning the blood off of my blade on the cloth of my shirt. My brother was still on the ground and struggling to get up onto his elbows. When I reached him, I used the now clean blade to cut his binds.

"You're gonna be all right," Sherlock murmured as he took the gag out of Sarah's mouth. "It's over now. It's over."

I glanced back to see him stroking her arms comfortingly with his hands before undoing more of the ropes. Sarah, now free of her gag, began to sob openly.

 _So this is how normal people react to life-threatening situations,_ I thought with a small sense of awe. I could hardly think about crying right now despite how I knew that big man would have killed me if he could.

John got to his feet once I freed him, wincing slightly. He probably gained a few bruises from this ordeal, at least. He darted to Sherlock's side and began helping him with Sarah's binds. Oddly, I got the feeling that my brother was avoiding my eyes.

"Don't worry," John said, smiling wearily. "Next date won't be like this."

I knew he was trying to use a bit of humor to help calm the woman, but all Sarah did was continue to bawl her eyes out. She hardly seemed to realize she was free when the boys finished. John put his arms around her and hushed in her ear soothingly while Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder for reassurance.

When the detective looked wistfully down the tunnel where Shan and her cohorts fled, something jolted within my core. I couldn't exactly place what it was; I had never felt anything like it before. Yet, I found that I didn't hate the feeling. It was like the spark that flooded me when I was engaged in dangerous acts.

I knew Sherlock wanted more than anything to track down Shan and officially solve this case, but he had stayed behind in order to help free Sarah and comfort her at the same time. I could have gotten her and John out of here while he went after our target, yet he still decided to remain.

It was the right thing to do—the decent and... _human_ thing to do.

Sherlock turned to look at me and caught me staring. He perked a brow at me.

"Max?"

I adverted my gaze and cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Are you all right?" the detective pressed.

"Fine," I said.

It was so odd. In some ways, I coped with other people better than Sherlock did. However, now I realized why he stayed behind. I wouldn't have been able to comfort Sarah like he had; I wouldn't have been able to see that what just happened to her was awful. All I could think was that she survived, so shouldn't she be happy? Shouldn't she be flooded with energy and excitement?

No, of course not. Because normal people didn't do that after nearly being killed. It _traumatized_ them.

Sherlock was intelligent enough to grasp that—he probably had come to terms with that ages ago; but I was still new to this. I had only figured out what makes me tick and sputter fire less than a year ago. More times than not, I understood how not to be rude to other people. John had taught me since I was little that if I was ever in a situation where I wanted to speak my mind and it was something negative to someone, to just walk away. The detective didn't have that filter, but when it came to this—when it came to the things that really _mattered..._

He was practically a saint.

About thirty minutes later, the police arrived to clear up the mess. The four of us were finally leaving the scene. John and Sarah were in front of Sherlock and me; Sarah had one of those shock blankets on and John had an arm around her shoulders. My brother gently guided her away from the tunnel as Sherlock paused.

I automatically stopped beside him and peered around to see Dimmock waiting beside one of the police cars. His expression was grim, but at the same time, a bit relieved.

"We'll just be off," Sherlock told him. "No need to mention us in your report."

"Mr. Holmes..." Dimmock began.

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector," Sherlock interjected. "A glittering career."

"I go where you point me," Dimmock said.

Sherlock began walking again. "Exactly."

I glanced over at Dimmock to give him a small appreciative smile before trotting to catch up to the detective.

"You could have—" I started to say in a quiet tone.

"No," Sherlock interrupted me just like he had with Dimmock. "No, I couldn't have, and you know why."

I exhaled tightly through my nose. "How d'you do it?"

"Do what?" Sherlock frowned at me.

"When you were calming her down, you sounded so genuine. So concerned. How d'you manage to..." I trailed off, fathomed.

"You make it sound like I don't have any decency," Sherlock said, sounding a tad insulted.

I shook my head. "Every time I think that we're alike, something happens to challenge that," I admitted.

"You think we're alike?" Sherlock asked, his tone growing soft.

I glanced at him to see he was staring at me with curious intent. I pursed my lips and looked away.

"I haven't mentioned it before?" I muttered.

"Clearly not," Sherlock replied.

I sighed again. "I just—you're the first one that I've met that... that's like me. That likes danger and complex situations—anything to strike fire into... I dunno what I'm saying."

"Your brother likes danger," Sherlock pointed out. "He wouldn't still be around if he didn't."

"John..." I trailed off, trying to find the right words before starting again. "John understands other people. And, I mean, so do I—so do _you—_ you especially! But I can't... _connect_ with others like John can. I know what it's like to care about someone; I care about my brother. I panicked when we saw that symbol at the flat and him and Sarah gone—panicked like I never have in my life."

"It's not about _connecting_ , exactly," Sherlock said. "There are still plenty of things other people do that simply baffles me. You remember the first case we worked together, how that woman wrote her daughter's name on the floor and everyone else thought it was out of sentiment? Even if that _was_ the case—why would someone obsess over the same thing for so long?"

I nodded in agreement.

"Now, I'm not saying that my actions with Sarah tonight were false or insincere," Sherlock went on. "I could tell she was upset and the best action to take was to console her and get her out of that situation. The Black Lotus don't get to claim another victim, even if it's just her mental state, not if I have anything to say about it. And... John likes her." He shrugged.

"And John is your friend too," I said, smiling a little. "You've at least connected with us."

"And you two have connected with me," Sherlock pointed out. "What in the _world_ does that say about the pair of you?"

I shrugged. "Probably nothing good."

"Are you sassing me right now?" Sherlock raise his brows.

"You said that sentence purely fishing for compliments; don't act all dejected," I scolded him.

Sherlock grunted in something between amusement and annoyance. Then, his expression grew serious and he gripped my arm to cause us to pause. I stopped walking and frowned up at him.

"What?" I asked.

"Are you ever planning on telling John about Kaida Miyako?" Sherlock's eyes searched my own.

I bit my lip before responding. "I... don't see it happening any time soon."

"He's clever, Max," Sherlock said. "He's seen how you can fight now. I'm just saying that perhaps it would be best if he heard it from you before he found out some other way."

"Well, you're not going to tell him, are you?" I demanded.

"Of course not, I promised you," Sherlock assured.

"Then I don't have to worry about it just yet," I replied, turning and starting to walk again. "A moment will come, I'm certain. But after him seeing what these kind of organizations are capable of, I don't want him worrying about me."

"As long as you don't keep contacting your old teacher, then he won't have anything to worry about," Sherlock said.

"I won't," I told him, then repeated his own words back to him. "I promised you."

The detective fell in step beside me and we allowed silence to grow between us. I suppose the odd thing was, I wasn't certain who was trying to figure out if I was lying more: Sherlock or myself.

* * *

In the end, it turned out I was right about Van Coon being the thief, but even he hadn't realized how valuable the object he took was worth. He merely thought that the cute little jade hairpin would suit his P. A., Amanda, who he had been involved with. When Sherlock told the woman about its true value, she just about lost her mind. He'd pieced everything together when he noticed the same brand of hand cream in Van Coon's flat as the bottle on her desk.

Two days later, I trotted down the steps from my room and into the kitchen wearing pajama pants and a T-Shirt that was three sizes too big for me. I found Sherlock and John sitting opposite each other at the dining table reading the paper.

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night," John was saying. He heard my approach and turned his head. "Well, someone finally awakes. You realize that your hair looks like a duster, right?"

I ran my hand over my ginger locks that had curled wildly atop my head in my sleep. "I'm making up for lost hours," I mumbled.

"Of sleep?" John said. "It doesn't work like that."

I waved him off as I headed toward the cabinets to pull out the tea kettle. "Talking about that pin?"

"He didn't know it's value; didn't know why they were chasing him," Sherlock said, confirming my suspicions.

"Hmm. Should've just got her a lucky cat," John said cheekily.

Sherlock gave him a brief smile before looking away. "Hmm."

John peered at our flatmate closely. "You _mind,_ don't you?"

"What?" Sherlock's head turned round to look back at him.

"That she escaped—General Shan," John clarified. "It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives," Sherlock said. "You, Max, and I, we barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock; and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that _he_ knows it."

"No," Sherlock replied. "No. I cracked _this_ code—all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." The detective then picked up the paper again and began to look through it.

I frowned as I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Sherlock was right; how deep did this organization go? Was it like the Yakuza? Was it just as dangerous? Now that Shan knew our names and faces, did that make us targets?

Honestly, it didn't seem that bad to tell John about Miyako and how I was trained. Living and working with Sherlock was proving to be just as dangerous as the Yakuza. Perhaps if I approached the subject like that, John wouldn't worry as much. However, even knowing that, I still couldn't bring myself to tell him—not yet.

So, I continued to prep my tea and my brother and I entered into friendly conversation; even Sherlock eventually joined in. Although as we laughed and smiled, I couldn't help but yearn for whatever thrilling case would come our way next.


	19. The Great Game, Part 1

_Maxine_

The air around was bitingly cold, which I found strange, considering we were indoors. Sherlock sat to my left, wearing a coat with a fur collar attached. He looked immensely bored as he eyed the man that sat across the table from us. Barry "Bezza" Berwick was in an orange jumpsuit, reminding me how the detective _actually_ asked me to come along to speak to a prison inmate.

"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," Sherlock prompted.

I was leaning on my elbows with my head propped in my gloved hands. My yellow scarf was around my neck—as it should be—and I'd tucked a woolen cap over my ginger curls. Berwick was rather young and sported short brown hair. His dark eyes darted between Sherlock and me.

"I'm sorry, I'm just confused about 'oo she is." The prisoner nodded in my direction.

"My colleague," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Friend," I corrected with a small shrug.

Sherlock shot me an irate glance. He'd gone weeks without a real case and it had been effecting his mood. It reminded me of someone trying to quit smoking—how their patience wore thin and everything made them angry.

"So you-you just bring your friends to—" Berwick began.

"She's my partner—she helps with my cases. Can you _please_ just tell me what happened?" Sherlock snapped.

Berwick nodded warily and began. "We'd been to a bar—a nice place—and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?"

A sigh that I was certain had to be deliberately noisy left Sherlock. I could almost _feel_ the rope that was his patience slowly splintering.

"She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man," Berwick said.

" _Wasn't_ a real man," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" Berwick blinked in confusion.

"It's not 'weren't,;' it's 'wasn't,'" the detective explained tightly.

"Oh," Berwick said.

"Go on." Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat and glanced at me as if to say: _Can you believe this?_

"Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," Berwick insisted. "And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives."

As Sherlock looked down at Berwick's hands, I sat up straight and furrowed my brow. Did this man really, _really_ think that he could use Sherlock to get out of killing his wife? Did he think Sherlock Holmes was stupid enough to fall for this?

"He learned us how to cut up a breast," Berwick went on when neither of us spoke.

"Taught," Sherlock said.

Berwick's face pinched with rising anger. "What?"

" _Taught_ you how to cut up a breast." Sherlock's eyes lifted from Berwick's hands and locked onto the prisoner's eyes.

"Yeah, well, then-then I done it," Berwick said.

"Did it," Sherlock replied without a single hesitation.

Color was rising in Berwick's face. " _Did_ it! _Stabbed_ 'er..." He started slamming his hand down on the table. "...over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't..."

Sherlock let out yet another loud sigh through his nose and turned his head away. I was starting to have a hard time keeping a smile from my lips. I understood that the detective was in a lot of discomfort since that ever-moving, ever-thinking brain of his had nothing to do for such a long stretch of time. However, seeing him get peeved over mere grammar errors on this level was almost too amusing.

Berwick was looking just as frustrated as Sherlock, but he still managed to get control of his temper and immediately corrected himself.

"... _wasn't_ movin' no more," he said.

Sherlock had managed to look at him again but at the sound of yet another grammar slip, the detective turned away again with annoyance coating his expression.

Berwick fixed it once again. "... _any_ more." The prisoner let out a shaky breath and lowered his head. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer than before. "You've gotta help me. I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."

Sherlock got to his feet. "Max," he said, gesturing for me to do the same.

"You've gotta _help_ me, Mr. Holmes!" Berwick begged frantically as I stood up and pushed in my chair.

Sherlock, who had started to walk away, now paused.

"Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this," Berwick pressed.

I went to the detective's side as he glanced over his shoulder at the prisoner.

"No, no, no, Mr. Berwick, not at all," Sherlock said. He paused for a moment, glancing away thoughtfully, then added, " _Hanged,_ yes."

With that, Sherlock quirked a smile at Berwick before turning and walking away.

I only looked back for a moment to see the prisoner's expression flood with a mixture of anger and anguish. I narrowed my eyes at him and let out a long, disappointed breath through my nose.

"Miss, please!" Berwick directed his words to me now. "You've gotta convince 'im! You don't want to see and innocent man die?"

"Of course not," I said. "And that's why I'm not going to try and convince Sherlock of anything when it comes to you."

I then followed after Sherlock, giving the prison guard that had watched over the exchange a small, appreciative nod as I went.

* * *

The next day, I was doing some finishing touches on the story boards I was going to send off to my publishers. Without a load of cases to distract me from my work, I hadn't ran behind in some time now and was actually ahead in what was expected of me.

I delicately ran the tip of my pencil over the lines detailing one of my major character's hair. It was odd how well I was able to put together stories involving people and them interacting with one another, yet when it came to reality I was absolute rubbish at socializing. Perhaps it was because in a story, there was a formula to follow. I knew everything about these characters, so I knew what to expect with them.

The character I was drawing then was Kazros—a shorter-than-average young man with snow-white hair and in a wild, slightly spiky style that was typical of manga art. He was loud and shameless as a character, always joking and doing just about anything for a laugh or to make others smile. Often, I wished I could take some of Kaz's best traits. Almost everyone liked him and he knew exactly how to speak his mind.

I supposed that Kaz and I did have a common theme, though. Both of us carried a secret that was incredibly destructive.

I still had yet to talk to John about my time in Japan with Miyako. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, but I knew that wasn't the case. I didn't _want_ to tell him; I didn't want my brother to worry or be upset and disappointed in me.

Just as I put my pencil back down to define Kaz's jawline, two deafening gunshots rang out from downstairs. The sound startled me so much, that my hand jolted to the side and streaked a long dark mark straight across Kaz's face. My immediate reaction was sheer irritation about the fact that I'd have to redo this panel. Then, I fully realized that a gun had just fired in the flat.

Sprinting out of my room and down the stairs, I nearly tripped into the kitchen in my haste. I caught myself on the counter and looked around before spotting Sherlock lying slumped in his armchair with his eyes closed and his head resting on the low back of it. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and he was wearing his pajamas with a blue silk dressing gown.

"Sherlock?" I said. I didn't see blood anywhere on him so I assumed he was being this calm because he knew the cause of the gunfire.

The detective opened his eyes but he didn't look at me. Instead, he stared blankly and lifted the arm that had been out of my sight before. In his hand was a pistol.

"Sher—!" I began to exclaim, but too late.

Sherlock aimed toward the sofa across the living room and fired the gun again. The sound was so loud, it forced me to clap my hands over my ears. I stepped slowly into the living room, eyeing the detective in concern as I lowered my arms. I glanced toward the wall he was shooting at and saw that he had spray-painted a smiley face in the same yellow paint from the Black Lotus case. There were bullet holes in both eyes and on the edge of its mouth. As I stared at it, a third gunshot fired (which made me jump and nearly fall over) and a new hole appeared in the center of the face, making a nose.

Before I could address Sherlock, pounding footsteps announced my brother's arrival as he came running up the stairs and into the flat. I assumed he's just gotten back from work.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" John yelled with his fingers in his ears.

Sherlock stared sulkily at the smiley face. "Bored," he said.

John squinted at our flatmate in disbelief. "What?"

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted, springing out of his chair.

John and I both instantly covered our ears with our hands when Sherlock moved the pistol to his right hand and turned toward the smiley face.

"No..." John protested weakly, as if he knew the detective wouldn't listen.

The gun fired and Sherlock swung his arm around his back and twisted slightly to his right. He shot at the face yet again from the awkward angle and it still hit its target.

"Bored! Bored!" Sherlock's face was tight with anger as he bellowed the word over and over.

John hurried into the room and snatched the gun away. I knew Sherlock allowed my brother to take it since I had seen first-hand how quick the detective's reflexes were. John slid the clip out of the gun as Sherlock walked toward the sofa.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," he complained. "Good job I'm not one of them."

My brother locked the pistol into a small safe on the dining table before straightening up and glaring at Sherlock. "So you take it out on the wall."

Sherlock ran a finger over the painted smile. "Ah, the wall had it coming."

I exhaled and shook my head as irritation began to prickle my spine. "Because of you, I have to redo a whole panel, you know," I told him.

The detective cast me a small glance. "At least you have something _to_ do," he replied.

"What about that Russian case?" John prompted as he took off his coat.

Sherlock flopped dramatically onto the sofa on his back. His head rested on a cushion while his bare feet dug into the armrest on the opposite end. He used his feet to push himself further along the sofa and slightly more into an upright position. Then, like a cat, he began kneading his toes into the armrest.

It was clear by all of his motions and expression that the detective was on the precipice of exploding. I wasn't entirely sure what that would mean for someone like Sherlock Holmes, and I didn't care to find out.

"Belarus," our flatmate said. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Ah, shame!" John replied sarcastically.

"Guy was a prick, anyway," I said with a small shrug.

John looked at me. "You went with him? To a prison? To question an inmate?"

I met my brother's gaze unflinchingly. "Yeah, and he was a prick," I repeated.

John turned to Sherlock. "Why would you take Maddie to something like that?"

"She's good at figuring things out," Sherlock said simply. "I wanted the company. You were out, so it fell to Max to accompany me."

John shook his head and turned to head into the kitchen. He threw up his arms in despair at the mess that greeted him. Sherlock had the flat in even more dire straits than when we first saw it back in October.

"Anything in?" John asked. "I'm starving."

Alarm sang through my body and I turned and reached out toward my brother. "John—wait—"

Too late. John had opened the fridge and his shoulders seized up. "Oh f..." He immediately slammed it shut again and slumped against the door for a moment.

"Yeah, um..." I said awkwardly. "Gave me a fright this afternoon too."

John straightened up and opened the door again. On the shelf inside was a man's head, cut off at the neck, looking towards the door. My brother stared at it for a couple of seconds, then quietly closed the door again.

"It's a head," he murmured, as if saying the words aloud would help him cope with the fact that Sherlock seriously had that in our fridge. John turned and yelled, "A severed head!"

 _"_ Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock replied calmly.

John stormed back into the living room. "No, there's a head in the fridge," he pressed.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"A bloody head!" John exclaimed.

"Y'know, Max took it much better." Sherlock examined his feet as he continued to knead the sofa with his toes.

"Are you—well, that's _brilliant,_ that my sister's been desensitized so much by you that this sort of thing is just-just common happenstance around here!" John shouted.

"Well, where _else_ was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock said, looking around at John. "You don't mind, do you?"

John held out his hands despairingly again and looked back toward the fridge.

"I got it from Bart's," Sherlock added, as if that would make my brother feel better.

John buried his head in one hand, clearly not soothed by the information.

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," Sherlock explained, waving vaguely toward his nearby laptop. After a moment, the detective changed the subject. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Uh, yes," John muttered after giving one last glance toward the fridge. He then went over and plopped down in Sherlock's usual chair.

" _A Study in Pink._ Nice," Sherlock said.

"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone—there _was_ a lot of pink. Did you like it?" John asked.

Even as John had been speaking, Sherlock had picked up a magazine from the coffee table and was now flipping it open. "Erm, no," he said to the pages.

"Why not?" John said. "I thought you'd be flattered."

I snorted. John looked over at me with one brow quirked.

"Come on, John, you're underestimating Sherlock's ego," I told him.

"' _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'_ " The detective had raised his index fingers to narrate a passage from John's blog.

"Now hang on a minute," John defended. "I didn't mean that in a—"

"Oh, you meant ' _spectacularly ignorant'_ in a _nice_ way!" Sherlock scoffed. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister..."

"I know," John said quietly.

"...or who's sleeping with who," Sherlock went on.

" _Whom,_ " I corrected.

The detective shot me a venomous look and I merely smiled widely at him.

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun," John added softly.

I looked between John and Sherlock with widening eyes. "You... no. No! You really just _don't_ know that?" I asked our flatmate in bewilderment.

"Not that again," Sherlock groaned. "It's not _important_."

"Not impor..." John shifted his position in his chair to face Sherlock. "It's primary school stuff. _How_ can you not know that?"

The detective pressed the heels of his hands to his palms. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?" I echoed.

Sherlock swung his legs around to the floor and sat up to fully face us. "Listen," he said, pointing to his head with one finger. "This is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... _really_ useful." He grimaced. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?" His eyes darted between the two of us.

John and I stared at him for a heartbeat or two. Both of us held our tongues for a few seconds, but then we can't contain ourselves.

"But it's the _solar system!_ " John exclaimed at the same time as I said, "There _had_ to have been a time when that was useful information."

"Oh, hell!" Sherlock flared. "What does that _matter?!_ So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear—" he flailed his hands around beside his head while he narrated the line from a children's poem, "—it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."

The detective ruffled his hair with both hands before glaring at John.

"Put _that_ in your blog," he snapped. "Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Then he directed his attention to me. "And you. Go and deal with your _panels_ and your _doodling._ "

With that, Sherlock petulantly shoved the magazine across the coffee table before lying down on the sofa again. He turned over to put his back to us and curled into a tight ball.

I shared a glance with John. My brother didn't look pleased in the least and I didn't blame him. Sherlock had never been quite so openly rude toward us before. John pursed his lips and got to his feet. As he walked across the living room, Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Out," John replied tightly. "I need some air." He slipped on his jacket.

"And I have a panel to fix," I said, moving toward the stairs that led to my room.

Sherlock didn't protest or say anything else as John went out the door. Before I could reach the stairs, however, Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice came.

"Ooh-ooh!" she greeted as she came into the living room.

I turned back and politely replied, "Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

Our landlady smiled at me before looking toward Sherlock, who was still curled tightly on the sofa. He started to stretch out his legs and turned his head enough to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's existence, but then looked away again. Our landlady carried a couple of shopping bags into the kitchen.

"Mm, fair word of warning, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "Don't open the fridge."

Mrs. Hudson glanced warily at the fridge then nodded at me. "Thank you, dear. You would think I'd get used to Sherlock's experiments after all this time, but they still can be..."

"I'd offer you a description, but I don't think there are enough words," I said.

Mrs. Hudson laughed. Looking to Sherlock, she asked, "Have you two had a little domestic?"

I guessed that she meant John. Sherlock flailed his arms to get himself upright then stood up off the sofa before going to the window looking out over Baker Street. He took the shortest route to his destination: up and over the coffee table. Down below, I heard the front door open and close.

"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," Mrs. Hudson said. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

"Right, well, I'm going back upstairs," I said tightly.

"Maxine, you sound upset," Mrs. Hudson noted, turning toward me and blinking rapidly. "I don't think I've ever heard you upset." She looked from me to Sherlock and back again. "Did the _three_ of you have a domestic?"

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock suddenly said, still at the window. "Quiet, calm, peaceful." He dragged in a long breath. "Isn't it _hateful?_ "

Mrs. Hudson began to unload her bags and set the receipt on the table for Sherlock to reimburse her later. Ever since John's row with the Pin and Chip machine, Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to shop for us.

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," she comforted. "A nice murder—that'll cheer you up. Probably the both of you." She cast me a small glance as she chuckled.

"What d'you mean by that?" I asked.

"Oh, I see how excited you get when a new case comes along, Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said. "Your brother enjoys them too, to an extent. But you! You're just as giddy as Sherlock when deceit and crime is out and about."

I rubbed the back of my neck, surprised by the wave of embarrassment that rose in me. "I... I suppose it's all good story reference."

"Besides, with the two of you on a case together again, any row you might have had will be gone in a flash." Mrs. Hudson nodded assuredly while ignoring my weak excuse. She headed into the living room with her bags.

"Can't come too soon," Sherlock murmured wistfully at the window.

Mrs. Hudson came to an abrupt halt when she spotted the wall Sherlock decorated. "Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?!"

Sherlock turned to admired his work, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson told him. She turned to storm off, but paused and glanced at me one last time on her way out. "Remember, don't take it personal." Then she was out the door and down the stairs.

I let out a long breath as the door closed behind our landlady. Looking toward Sherlock, I found he was staring at me, but the moment our eyes met he adverted his gaze.

"Don't you have a panel to fix?" he said, keeping his pale green eyes on the smiley face.

I folded my arms and glared at my feet for a moment. Ordinarily, I would walk away from any verbal conflict. I hated the dance of emotion and social connection. None of it made any sense to me, no matter how many times John tried to teach me. Clearly, he was so frustrated that he had to take a leaf from my book and just leave. So why was this the one time that I felt the need to stand my ground?

"You frustrated me," I said abruptly.

Sherlock blinked and met my eyes again. His brow furrowed with confusion and bewilderment. "Sorry?" he said, walking until he stood in the middle of the living room.

I walked forward as well, stopping when I was less than a meter away. I glared up into Sherlock's eyes and tried my best not to let my nerves show—my pounding heart and how my knees felt like they might buckle. Perhaps this was how people normally reacted to life-threatening situations; perhaps this was what true fear felt like.

However, right when I opened my mouth to speak, a massive explosion suddenly erupted behind Sherlock. It must have happened out in the street, for all that happened in the flat was the windows being blown in and the blast throwing Sherlock and me to the ground. The detective landed over me and shielded me with his body as glass rained down over us. My ears were ringing and my head throbbed.

Sherlock groaned as he lifted his weight off of me and peered down at my face.

"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice sounded like he was underwater.

"I think so," I said. "You?"

"Yeah," Sherlock carefully got off of me; shattered glass pattered on the floor as it slid off of his back. "Careful, watch your feet."

"The bloody hell _was_ that?" I asked as Sherlock helped me stand.

The detective quirked a smile. "Our next case, I'm guessing."

* * *

 _John_

A long groan escaped my lips when consciousness found me on Sarah's sofa. I sat up stiffly, my unbuttoned shirt falling away from my stomach as I did so. My neck felt like someone had stashed a knife in it. I tried to turn it this way and that in an effort to soothe the tight muscle.

"Morning!"

Sarah came walking in wearing a dressing gown. Her expression was cheery and her face was beautiful as ever, despite there being no makeup on it and her hair still mussed from bed.

"Oh, mor..." I cut off when I turned to look at her, for my neck sent a jolt of pain through me. I grimaced and gripped it before finishing my greeting, "Morning."

"See? Told you you should've gone with the lilo," Sarah teased.

I rubbed my neck. "No, no, no, it's fine," I insisted. "I-I slept fine. It's very kind of you."

Sarah scanned the sofa for a moment before she spotted what she was looking for: the remote control for the TV. She reached behind me and picked it up to turn on the telly.

"Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know," she said, giving me a suggestive glance.

I kept my eyes on the screen for a moment. _Be still, my beating heart,_ I thought. A silly quote that Maxine would probably smack me for.

"What about the time after that?" I queried, turning my head toward her but not meeting her gaze.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her smile and my heart gave a resounding _thud_ in my chest.

In the background, I caught some of what the newsreader was saying. "Experts are hailing it as the artistic find of the century."

A glance at the TV told me it was featuring the Hickman Art Gallery with a headline at the bottom of the screen reading: "The Lost Vermeer."

Sarah set down the remote, bringing my attention back to her.

"So you and Sherlock had a row, yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"And your sister—she got mad at him too?"

I nodded.

"Is she okay staying over there? Or is she like you and need air?" Sarah grinned at me slyly.

I shrugged. "Maddie can hold her own, and though Sherlock is an ass at times, he will be civil to her if she told him to."

"How d'you know that?" Sarah tilted her head. "Isn't this their first argument?"

"First one where I saw her get so peeved, yeah," I said. "But Maddie has a... er, let's just say that she doesn't typically get mad, right? So when she does..."

"It's scary?" Sarah offered when I trailed off.

"Bloody terrifying, really," I said.

We both laughed for a moment. I figured that Sarah was trying to see if I had used the row with Sherlock as an excuse to come stay the night with her. After all, Maxine had stayed behind to put up with our... _eccentric_ flatmate.

In all honesty, I think that it was a bit of both—I wanted to get away from Sherlock and it was a delightful reason to come stay with a beautiful woman.

"So, d'you want some breakfast?" Sarah asked.

"Love some," I replied.

"Yeah, well you'd better make it yourself, 'cause I'm gonna have a shower!" Sarah declared, giving him a sassy smile before leaving the room.

I chuckled and began buttoning up my shirt. I truly did enjoy her; if only I could get Sherlock and Maxine to cooperate with my dating life.

"... it fetched over twenty million pounds," the newsreader went on. "This one is anticipated to do even better. Back now to our main story. There's been a massive explosion in central London."

My head snapped up, sending another bite of pain through my neck. I stared at the screen with growing shock and horror as the picture swapped over to show live footage of a road that was all too familiar. Brickwork was scattered all over the pavement and police cordons had been set up to keep people out. The headline at the bottom of the screen declared: "House destroyed on Baker St."

"As yet, there are no reports of any casualties," the newsreader said, "and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement."

I scrambled to my feet despite how my legs had next to no feeling in them. Sprinting around the sofa, I snatched my jacket before turning toward the door and calling out toward the bathroom.

"Sarah!" I cried.

"Police have issued an emergency number for friends and relatives..." the newsreader went on.

"Sarah!" I tried again. All that responded was the sound of the water in her shower stall. I didn't have time- she'd understand, I'd text her while in the cab. "Sorry—I've got to run!" I shouted before running out the door.

* * *

 _Maxine_

I trotted down the stairs with a slightly cheerful skip in my step. I'd finally fixed the panel that Sherlock caused me to mess up yesterday and now I was finally going to get him to hold up his end of the bargain he'd made with me regarding emailing Miyako.

My sketchbook was under one arm and a handful of pencils in the other. A pocket sharpener was in my back pocket with an eraser snuggled up next to it. Down in the living room, Sherlock sat in his usual chair with a rather sulky expression. I paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Oh don't look so upset," I said. "This was our agreement."

"Surely you realize that I'm not a man that likes to sit still doing nothing for long periods of time," Sherlock muttered. He wore a purple undershirt with a dark gray suit jacket over it; a much nicer look on him than his dressing gown.

I walked across the room and plopped down in the chair opposite him—the chair John usually sat in. "Of course I know that," I said. "We can talk while I work, just don't move your lips too much."

"I feel ridiculous," Sherlock complained.

"So sorry for your loss," I replied sarcastically. "However, this is an ideal time, since John isn't here. You won't have to feel even more embarrassed."

"I'm not _embarrassed,_ " Sherlock retorted indignantly. "This is just..."

"For someone so egotistical, you'd think that you'd love the idea of someone drawing your portrait," I said.

"Why can't you just use a photograph?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's not the same," I said. "I can't ask the photo version of you to tilt your head slightly so the light catches you eyes better or mess with its hair."

Sherlock let out a groan.

"This is the least you can do after how rude you were yesterday," I pointed out. "Or, we could just wait until John comes back and we can both stare at you awkwardly the whole time."

"Just get on with it, will you?" Sherlock grumbled. "Er... what pose d'you want?"

I couldn't help but think of how considerate it was for the detective to even ask. I tilted my head as I observed him. Which expression did I like on Sherlock the most? I did appreciate his rare smiles; the genuine ones, not the snarky smirks he'd quirk after a snide remark. However, I also adored the intensity his eyes gained when he was analyzing something and putting the pieces of a case together, but that wouldn't be reasonable to ask of him. That didn't seem like an expression he could just bring about on command.

"Just neutral, is fine," I said. "Whatever is comfortable. But stare over at the window for me? And lean back in the chair."

Sherlock looked irritated for a moment longer, then obeyed, leaning back in his seat and fixated his pale green stare on the far window.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said, beginning to sketch outlines of a slender, male human head. "What shall we talk about? Oh, but don't move your mouth too much."

Sherlock let out a long breath through his nose, still clearly annoyed, but then I saw his expression grow pensive.

"What is your story about?" he asked after a moment.

"My story?" I said. "My manga?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I know it's called 'MANA' and seems to be quite popular."

"Oh, well..." I deftly moved my pencil along while flicking my eyes back and forth between Sherlock and the paper. "I guess the genre is known as Magic-Punk."

Sherlock's brows twitched in confusion; luckily I wasn't drawing them yet. "Magic-Punk?"

I nodded. "It's a world of fantasy in which there is technology, but it is fueled by magic instead of electricity or steam or the like. My world has trains and vehicles, even guns and watches. However, everything requires magic to work, if it's tech-related anyway. The guns just channel a Mage's magic into bullets. The weaker Mages are typically the ones who use those kind of weapons though."

"...Interesting..." Sherlock said slowly. "I've not heard of a fiction like that."

"I should hope not," I said as I began to sketch in the definition of Sherlock's cheekbones.

"So that's your setting, your world... what's the plot?" Sherlock prompted.

"Mm, four Mages trying to stop an ancient old Mage from killing all the lesser Mages in an attempt to bring back the world of Raw Magic—the world before tech was introduced to them," I said with a small shrug. "It gets more complicated than that, but I think that explains the bones of it."

"Magic has never been something of my interest," Sherlock said. "There's no solid rules to it. In each book—in every piece of fiction, really—the magic can differ from one to the next. If it _did_ exist, trying to do my work would be a nightmare."

"Well, that's the nice thing about drawing and writing this," I said. "It's my world. _I_ get to make the rules." I paused in my sketching, biting my lip. "Although, I am thinking of starting a new project."

"A new project?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yes." I carefully began forming the outline of Sherlock's eyes. "Set in 19th century London and involving a certain quirky detective and his two companions."

Sherlock blinked. "You think our adventures would be popular in Japan?"

"I can put a spin on a few things to better suit the style that's appreciated out East," I said as I delicately flicked my pencil to add the detective's eyelashes. "Maybe a dash of magic."

"Isn't John and his blog enough?" Sherlock asked in a huff.

"Are you worried I might make you out to be a 'spectacularly ignorant' person?" I queried with a small grin.

His eyes flicked toward me for a moment before focusing across the room again. "You're different when you draw. More cheeky."

"Problem?" I raised a brow at him.

Sherlock looked at me again. I had paused in my sketching, so this time he didn't get back into posture. "Maybe it's not just the drawing. You've overall been... I can't place it."

"More open?" I supplied. "It happened with Miyako as well." I put my pencil back to the paper and Sherlock took it as his cue to get back into position. "After a few months of being around her... I got more comfortable."

"Does this mean you're always this way with John? I haven't seen that," Sherlock noted.

"Er, no... not exactly," I said. "John's my brother. Our relationship is different than what I'd have with someone who... didn't see me grow up. I dunno. I guess there's some part of me that thinks if John knew who I truly was, he wouldn't care for me."

I slowly stopped sketching as the weight of my own words fell in on me. I honestly hadn't been aware that I felt that way until I said it out loud. I stared blankly at the outlines of Sherlock's sketched face on my paper, suddenly under the impression I was in a collapsing elevator.

"Max?"

Sherlock began to get out of his chair and the motion jarred me back into reality. I held out my hand to him without meeting his eyes, indicating that he should stop. I put my pencil down again as the detective hesitantly got back in his pose.

"Family expects things," I murmured as I started to make faint looping lines for Sherlock's hair. "Strangers don't. Not really—not the same things. And you and Miyako... you both understood— _understand_ me. That I can't _feel_ unless there's something... insane going on. John likes danger too; he wouldn't be here if he didn't. But... he doesn't _need_ it. Not like I do."

To his credit, Sherlock remained perfectly still, but when I glanced up at him, I could see his eyes flickering slightly as if he were searching for the words to say.

"High-functioning sociopath," he finally murmured.

The pencil fell from my hand. I raised my eyes up to stare at Sherlock from over my drawing pad.

"Doesn't that imply that I can't feel empathy?" I murmured.

Sherlock smiled humorlessly. I immediately remembered how I acted when Sarah was crying after the incident with the Black Lotus. I swallowed and nodded.

"Suppose it makes sense," I said.

"It doesn't imply that you don't have a conscious," Sherlock assured. "After all, you stood up for me with Sebastian."

"I dunno if stood up for is the right term," I said.

Sherlock's grin came back, but this time it was almost gleeful. "You put up with our dating charade so that we could drive him mad."

"Mainly because he's a prick," I replied. "But if that's you argument, couldn't you say that I was feeling empathy toward you?"

"Probably only because you can relate to being alienated," Sherlock said softly. "Max, being like this doesn't mean that there's anything _wrong_ with you. In fact, I'd say your far better than the vast majority of the population."

I leaned down to collect my pen. "Thanks, I suppose..." His compliment actually made something warm blossom in my chest—something I couldn't quite place. "I guess putting a name to it just makes it seem more solidified."

"It's not like putting a name to it changes who you are," Sherlock said. "If someone grew up without the knowledge that they had blond hair because they didn't have access to a mirror—and I suppose kept it ludicrously short and never looked when they cut it—the day they figured out they were blond wouldn't make them any different from how they were before."

"Are you using similes?" I asked with my brows raised.

"Not very good ones, by your expression." Sherlock chuckled.

I smiled and opened my mouth to reply, but then there was a knock on the door downstairs. I frowned and turned in my seat.

"Did John forget his key?" I mused.

"It was in the jacket he took," Sherlock said as he got to his feet.

I rose as well and looked toward the windows. I'd peek out to see who was calling, but they were boarded up from the explosion that went off yesterday. Sherlock headed out of the living room and down the steps. I glanced at my sketch of him and let out a long breath through my nostrils. It was no wonder how Sherlock and I got on so well; we were two of a kind.

"Lovely sight outside." A familiar voice drifted up from downstairs when Sherlock opened the front door. "Gas leak, they're saying."

Sherlock merely groaned in response and came trudging back up the steps. I turned to see him reenter the room with a sour expression. Shortly behind him was Mycroft Holmes, looking just the same as the last time I met him at the crime scene of Jeff Hope's death. He wore the immaculately tailored suit, his hair was carefully styled and sleek, his smile faint and formal.

"Ah, Maxine," he greeted when he spotted me. "So good to see you again. Congratulations on the recent sales spike. The English versions are due to release this month, yes?"

Sherlock blinked and looked between me and Mycroft and back again. "What?"

"My manga," I said to him before turning my attention to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft. I trust this isn't a social visit?"

"Well, with the explosion outside, I was terribly worried," Mycroft said, his expression falling to one of concern that seemed _too_ genuine to me. "It's my brother, after all; and his companions."

Sherlock went back to his chair and practically collapsed into it. From around the other side of it, he picked up his violin and propped it on his chin. Without taking out the bow, he merely began to pluck away at the strings seemingly at random. "What do you _want,_ Mycroft?"

Mycroft let out a small exasperated breath before walking further into the room. However, he paused when he reached my shoulder, peering at my drawing pad.

"Oh, incredible likeness so far," he said. "Well done, Maxine. So you do realism as well?"

"On-on occasion," I stammered as I folded the drawing pad into my arms, pressing the sketch to my chest. I could see Sherlock stiffening out of the corner of my eye. "Sherlock let me borrow a photograph."

"Did he?" Mycroft smiled widely. "How considerate. Do you often draw people?"

"Only those with features I like," I replied before really thinking about it. "Er, Sherlock's hair and eyes are quite intricate. It makes it a challenge."

"We Holmes enjoy our challenges as well," Mycroft said as he went to John's usual chair and sat down. "Which brings me to a proposal for you, little brother."

Sherlock glanced toward him, indicating he was listening.

"A civil servant was found dead this morning; head bashed in," Mycroft said. "He had with him some very sensitive information on a memory stick, which is now missing."

"That's the bare bones, isn't it?" I said as I placed my drawing pad and pencil on the dining table. "You wouldn't come to Sherlock is it was a simple robbery; sensitive information or not."

"Correct, Maxine; sharp as ever I see." Mycroft cast me a smile before returning his attention to his brother. "Of course there are complexities that the Scotland Yard or even my people wouldn't be able to figure out; at least not quickly enough." He tossed a folder onto the coffee table. "The details are inside."

Before Sherlock could move or answer, the front door burst open and John's voice yelled up the stairs.

"Maxine! Sherlock!"

John burst into the living room and his eyes were first drawn to the boarded up windows then they darted over to us.

"John," Sherlock greeted mildly as he continued his random pizzicato.

"I saw it on the telly." John came to my side and gripped my shoulder, looking me over before turning his eyes on Sherlock. "Are either of you hurt?"

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock glanced around at the mess of broken glass and scattered paperwork as if he'd forgotten it. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently."

I still didn't quite believe the 'gas leak' bit. Sherlock had seemed to excited by the explosion when it first went off; even claimed it was our next case. So why was he acting so calmly about it now? Was it for Mycroft's benefit? Perhaps John's? Or had he totally changed hi mind about it?

Sherlock began plucking the violin strings again as he turned toward his brother. "I can't," he said.

"'Can't?'" Mycroft echoed.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big," Sherlock replied. "I can't spare the time."

John gaped at the detective while I furrowed my brow.

"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft pressed. "This is of national importance."

Sherlock continued to flick his fingers across the strings. "How's the diet?" he queried.

Mycroft's face tightened with irritation. " _Fine._ Perhaps _you_ could get through to him, John. Or you, Maxine."

"What?" John asked and the two of us went closer to where the brothers sat.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft said.

"If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?" Sherlock demanded.

"No-no-no-no-no," Mycroft replied with a wave of his hand. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time... not with the Korean elections so..." He trailed off when the three of us all stared at him. He cleared his throat and went on. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" Mycroft smiled humorlessly, clearing telling us to forget what he just said. "Besides, a case like this—it requires..."—he grimaced in distaste, "...legwork."

Sherlock plucked on of the violin strings a bit harsher than the others, appearing irritated. Rather than respond to his brother, he turned to John, who was absently rubbing the back of his neck.

"How's Sarah, John?" the detective asked. "How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected while consulting his pocket watch. "It was the sofa."

" _How...?_ Oh, never mind," John sighed. He sat down on the coffee table while I went over to Sherlock and perched on the arm of his chair.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you three became... pals," Mycroft noted with a smile.

Sherlock shot his brother a dark look. At that moment, he seemed to notice I'd come over and was sitting mere millimeters away. He turned round to meet my eyes with a perked brow.

"What?" I said with a shrug. "There's nowhere else to sit close by. The sofa's covered in glass."

"What's he like to live with?" Mycroft went on. "Hellish, I imagine."

"I never get bored," John replied.

Mycroft's smile became condescending. "Good! That's good, isn't it? I see he helps Maxine with her artistic skills." He glanced toward the dining table where my drawing pad was.

John frowned and peered over at it, standing up for a moment to get a better look. "Is that— Sherlock, is that you?"

"Max won a bet," Sherlock muttered, plucking sulkily at the E string on his violin.

"Against _you?_ " Mycroft scoffed. "Perish the thought that the great Sherlock Holmes could be bested. You will have to tell me the details on that later."

Sherlock picked up his bow and whipped it through the air before him in an airy fashion. He nearly struck me with the tip of it, which I had a feeling was on purpose.

Mycroft sighed and picked up the folder from the table and got to his feet. He strode over and offered it to his brother, but Sherlock merely looked back at him with a staggering force of stubbornness. Mycroft grimaced and poked his tongue into the corner of his mouth before turning it and handing it to John instead.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft said as John took the folder, albeit with a startled expression. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John suggested.

"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft replied.

John gave a brief smile. "But...?"

"'But?'" Mycroft repeated.

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," John said.

Sherlock smirked as he began to apply rosin to his bow with a small cloth.

"Your sister had the same notion; seems both Watsons are cleverer than they appear," Mycroft said. "The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system—the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called." He looked back toward Sherlock. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John sniggered quietly. "That wasn't very clever."

Sherlock and I smiled in agreement.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft told John.

"Oh." John still didn't look remorseful about his comment.

"But it _is_ secret. And missing," Mycroft said.

" _Top_ secret?" John asked.

"Very." Mycroft's expression grew troubled. "We thing West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back toward Sherlock and me. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

My brows shot up as Sherlock took a sharp breath in through his nose. The detective raised the violin to his shoulder, before locking his green gaze on his brother.

"I'd like to see you try," he replied calmly.

I suddenly felt like I was in the crossfire of a gunfight. I glanced from Sherlock to Mycroft as the latter leaned in closer toward his little brother.

"Think it over," he said in a threatening tone.

Sherlock merely stared back at him, clearly unimpressed. His calmness gave me a bit of reassurance. While I didn't think that Mycroft could be a physical threat to myself or my flatmates, I still couldn't help but remember how easily he abducted John and me the first time we met with Sherlock. He might not hurt his brother, but I was certain Mycroft had other means to torture people. However, with Sherlock so nonchalant, it gave the indication that Mycroft couldn't do anything _too_ horrendous to us.

"Goodbye, Maxine." Mycroft put his hand out toward me.

I glanced toward Sherlock, but he was focused on his violin now, gently tuning it despite not even running the bow across the strings to check the sound. After a brief moment of hesitation, I gripped Mycroft's hand. His skin was smooth and his grip was firm; the hand of a man who most likely had never done any sort of physical labor in his life. Rather than shaking my hand, he brought it to his lips and gently kissed my knuckles.

Sherlock's head snapped around and Mycroft smiled widely at me, completely ignoring his brother.

"And you, John." Mycroft turned around and offered his hand to John, who had a conflicted gleam in his eyes as he took it. They shook and Mycroft gave my brother a smile as well, though this one was a touch creepier. "See you _very_ soon," he said.

John was clearly trying not to look nervous as Mycroft headed back toward the chair to collect his coat. Sherlock began to play a short and irritating sequence of notes and he didn't stop until Mycroft was out of the room and down the stairs. The front door closed and the detective lowered his violin while grimacing in the direction of his brother's back. His face was twisted with annoyance and irritation.

"Why'd you lie?" John asked as he sat back down on the coffee table.

"Shouldn't that be obvious?" I said. I stood and went over to John's usual chair, since he hadn't claimed it.

"You've got nothing on—not a single case," John said to Sherlock as I plopped down. "That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock replied with a shrug.

John looked between Sherlock and me. I raised my brows at him in a look that said, _Come on! I said it was obvious, didn't I?_

"Oh." John nodded. "Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he can speak, his phone began to ring. He irritable whipped his bow down again and put it on the seat beside him before fishing out his mobile.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.

John and I watched as the detective's expression suddenly intensified.

"Of course," he said. "How could I refuse?"

Sherlock got to his feet as he switched his phone off and put his violin on the seat. He began to stride toward the door.

"Lestrade," he explained. "I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want us to," John said.

"Of course," Sherlock said as he snatched his coat. He glanced back toward us. "I'd be lost without my blogger and artist."


	20. The Great Game, Part 2

_Maxine_

After a taxi ride, the three of us arrived at the New Scotland Yard and followed Detective Inspector Lestrade across the general office toward his private one. I was glad he was back; Dimmock wasn't one I wanted to work with again, unless he'd learned his lesson about being a stubborn ass.

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade said to Sherlock. "The surprising ones."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"You'll love _this._ That explosion..." Lestrade trailed off and I realized he was talking about the one that went off outside our flat.

We passed Donovan's desk at that moment and Sherlock exchanged a small glare with her as we went by before responding to Lestrade. "Gas leak, yes?"

"No." Lestrade shook his head.

"No?" Sherlock echoed.

"No. Made to _look_ like one," Lestrade said.

"What?" John asked, his brows rising.

We reached Lestrade's office and Sherlock paused by the desk to stare down at a white envelope lying there. I went to Sherlock's side, John just behind me, and the two of us looked at the envelope as well.

Written there in elegant handwriting are the words: _"Sherlock Holmes."_

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box—a _very_ strong box—and inside it was this." Lestrade pointed at the envelope.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock reached toward the envelope.

"We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped," Lestrade added.

"How reassuring!" Sherlock hesitated for a moment before picking the envelope up. He held it close to the bulb of the angle-poise lamp on the desk and examined both sides. "Nice stationary. Bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade blinked.

"From the Czech Republic," Sherlock explained. "No fingerprints?"

"No," Lestrade said.

Sherlock eyed the handwriting. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold—iridium nib."

"She?" John said.

"Obviously." Sherlock continued to frown at the envelope.

"Obviously!" John repeated in exasperation.

I leaned closer to the detective, peering at the writing. "You've never met a man that has nice handwriting?"

"It's not an impossibility, but the odds are highly stacked against it," Sherlock said.

"What if he just _wants_ you to think he's a woman?" I asked.

"Who would want to do that?" Sherlock replied in a clipped tone. He snatched the letter opener from the desk and carefully slit the envelope open. Peering inside, his mouth opened a little in surprise and he carefully took out what was inside: a pink iPhone.

"But that's-that's the phone, the pink phone," John stammered.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked, startled.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like..." Sherlock trailed off and turned to face Lestrade. "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"

Donovan stepped inside the office and dropped off some files down on a desk near the door. She glanced toward us, but didn't say anything.

"Course I read his blog! We _all_ do. D'you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"

Donovan sniggered loudly, earning her a sharp glare from Sherlock as he took off his gloves. John pursed his lips in embarrassment and I patted him on the shoulder in an effort to console him. When Donovan left the room, Sherlock returned his attention back to the phone.

"It isn't the same phone," he repeated. "This one's brand new." He examined the connection sockets as he spoke. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." He shot John an accusatory glare.

"If John was able to describe the phone down to the last detail, I don't think he'd have as wide an audience," I said. "Too much description gets dull; it bores the reader. Who cares about the phone other than it being pink? No—whoever did this didn't use John's blog, they had other means to know what type of mobile it was."

Sherlock's irascible look fixated on me now. Clearly, he didn't like being told he was wrong, but I knew he was just trying to pick on my brother because of that whole Sun thing. John had been trying to show the intricacy of Sherlock as a person; he hadn't meant harm.

Finally looking back to the phone, Sherlock powered it on and blinked when it immediately gave out a voice alert.

"You have one new message," the robotic voice declared.

The message played, but there was no words—just the unmistakeable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal. However, while the Greenwich pips consist of five short pips and one longer tone, this recording had only four short pips and the longer one.

"They changed the pips," I noted softly.

"Is that it?" John asked.

"No. That's _not_ it," Sherlock said.

A photograph had also been uploaded to the phone. Sherlock opened it and Lestrade came around to look over his shoulder at it with the rest of us. The picture was of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall that bore wallpaper that was peeling down. A tall mirror was propped on one corner and a smaller mirror was standing on the mantlepiece.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade demanded. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Sherlock stared into the distance. "It's a warning."

"A warning?" John said.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, thing like that," Sherlock explained. "Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again." He briefly looked down at the photo again before brandishing the phone at the others as he started to leave the office. "And I've seen this place before."

"H-hang on," John stammered. " _What's_ gonna happen again?"

Sherlock turned and raised his hands dramatically. " _Boom!_ " Then he headed off out of the office with the three of us scrambling to follow after him.

* * *

Arriving back at 221 Baker Street, Sherlock, John, and I got out of the back of the taxi while Lestrade hopped out of the front seat. As Sherlock unlocked the door, the Detective Inspector glanced over at me.

"You always just squish yourself in the back with them?" he asked.

I shrugged. "John and I are small and Sherlock's thin, so it works out."

John shot me a small glare.

"I don't understand why you're sensitive about it," I muttered to him as we followed Sherlock inside. "It's useful a lot of times."

Inside the building in the corridor leading to Mrs. Hudson's flat, Sherlock paused by a door that led down to a basement flat. Above it were the letters: 221C. There was a padlock attached to the door—a sturdy one at that.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called loudly toward our landlady's front door.

"Honestly, Sherlock, you could go knock," John muttered.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and came over with a confused frown.

"What's going on?" she asked, looking between her tenants and Lestrade.

"The keys," Sherlock insisted, gesturing to the padlock.

"For the basement?" Mrs. Hudson blinked. "What—?"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson—now!" Sherlock snapped.

Mrs. Hudson winced slightly before turning and going back toward her flat.

"Sherlock..." John said in a low tone.

"This is important, John," Sherlock replied tightly. "We don't have any time to waste."

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson came back with the key. She didn't seem upset by Sherlock's previous sharpness; I was guessing she was just used to the detective's demeanor by now.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat," Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock peered closely at the door's keyhole. "The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be," Mrs. Hudson replied. "That's the only key."

Sherlock pulled off the padlock and switched keys to unlock the door itself. His expression was troubled. I couldn't help but wonder if this was the first time a case found him rather than the other way around.

Abruptly, I recalled the first case I ever went on with Sherlock. Jeff Hope, the serial killer cabbie of A Study in Pink, had told us that someone warned him about Sherlock Holmes. Then, with his last few breaths, he'd given us a name: Moriarty.

Hope had called Moriarty Sherlock's fan. Could it be possible that it was Moriarty who sent the phone? Who set off the bomb?

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."

Sherlock opened the door and immediately went inside. I was just behind him with my brother and Lestrade following.

"I had a place once when I was first married," Mrs. Hudson rambled on behind us. "Black mould all up the walls..."

Her voice was cut off as Lestrade closed the door behind him. I saw John's face twinge a bit, but in all honesty it was probably for the best our landlady didn't get too involved in this.

The four of us descended the stairs and Sherlock slowly pushed the door to the living room open before striding inside. The room before us looked exactly like the photograph that was sent to the phone with one exception: there was a pair of trainers placed neatly side by side in the middle of the floor with their toes pointed toward the door.

"Shoes," John said, as if stating the obvious would help him understand why the hell they were there.

Sherlock began to walk toward them, but John held out a cautionary hand toward the detective.

"He's a bomber, remember," he said.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then continued toward the trainers with delicate prudence. I walked after him, waving my brother off when he shot me a bewildered look. As Sherlock crouched down, I knelt beside him.

"Sherlock, you know who this is," I whispered to him.

He glanced toward me, blinking. "Do I?"

I stared into his eyes meaningfully. He blinked once more, then his gaze sharpened.

"Of course," he breathed, looking back at the trainers. "Obvious."

"What're you two on about?" Lestrade asked.

The detective put his hands on the floor and and leaned forward, ignoring Lestrade altogether. Lowering his body down, he moved closer to the shoes. Just as his nose was almost touching them, a phone rang.

Everyone in the room jumped. Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, as if frustrated with himself for being startled. He then got to his feet and pulled off his glove to take out the pink iPhone from his coat pocket. Standing up beside him, I peered over his shoulder to see that the caller I.D. read _"NUMBER BLOCKED."_ Sherlock paused for a second, then switched on the speaker and held the phone a few inches from his mouth.

"Hello?" he said softly.

On the other line, a female voice drew in a shaky breath before speaking tearfully. "H-hello... sexy."

Sherlock and I looked at one another while John and Lestrade exchanged a bewildered glance. The woman gave out a sob.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"I've... sent you... a little puzzle... just to say hi," the woman replied between teary gasps.

"Who's talking?" Sherlock demanded. "Why are you crying?"

"I-I'm not... crying... I'm typing..." the woman went on, still shaky and full of tears. "...and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out." She sobbed again, clearly unable to hold in her rising hysteria.

Sherlock's gaze lifted and he stared off in thought. "The curtain rises," he murmured.

I nodded. It had to be Moriarty. It was the only explanation.

"What?" John said.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

"No, what did you mean? And why did Maddie nod along like she's in on it?" John demanded.

Sherlock half turned his head toward my brother. "I've been expecting this for some time."

"Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock..." the woman went on, her breaths coming in almost ragged now. "...or I'm going... to be... so naughty."

The line went dead.

* * *

I sat next to Sherlock in the exact same lab at St Bartholomew's Hospital that John and I had met him in. I'd been back here a few times with Sherlock since we'd moved in to 221B Baker Street for some of the cases he worked. Sometimes, he preferred to do some of the forensic work himself. Other times, he came in here to perform random experiments. There had been occasions where he would pester me for nearly an hour long to come with him. With John working, I was often the only one around to listen to Sherlock ramble. As he regularly reminded me, he did better when he thought out loud, and Mrs. Hudson still hadn't given him back his skull.

Right then, Sherlock was looking into a microscope while a computer screen beside him displayed a scanner of some sort running tests. He'd gotten samples off of the shoes earlier and placed them in the dish he was peering into. John was pacing up and down on the other side of the bench.

"So, who d'you suppose it was?" John asked.

Somewhere, a phone trilled a text alert. Sherlock ignored it and absently said, "Hmm?" to John's remark.

"The woman on the phone—the crying woman," John said.

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there," Sherlock replied.

I knew what was coming after that remark. John had taught me too well when it came to phrasing things correctly.

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads," John said in exasperation.

"You're not going to be much use to her," Sherlock told him simply.

"He's right," I said, earning me a sharp look from my brother. "The best we can do for her now is figure out this puzzle. Try to find out more about the bomber."

 _Find out more about Moriarty,_ I thought, and after a small glance with Sherlock, I knew he was thinking the same.

"What is going on between you two?" John demanded. "I feel like I'm missing something—or you two are sharing an inside joke or something."

"It's hardly a joke," Sherlock murmured.

"Sorry?" John asked, clearly not hearing the detective properly.

"It's like Sherlock said, he's been expecting this," I said. "Back with that cabbie in A Study in Pink, Jeff Hope? He mentioned Sherlock had a fan. He said someone put him on to start killing and was paying him."

"What—Moriarty?" John said. "No. Really? You think this is him?"

"Seems logical," Sherlock said. "Though, not certain if the bomber himself is Moriarty or if Moriarty put the bomber up to all this."

"Either way, he's connected," I said.

"But why? Why would this guy take an interest in you?" John asked.

"Perhaps while Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath, Moriarty is a high-functioning psychopath," I suggested.

"Are-are they _trying_ to trace it, trace the call?" John asked as the screen near Sherlock flashed the words: _NO MATCH._

"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock said.

The same phone from before trilled another text alert.

"Max, pass me my phone," Sherlock said.

I blinked, glancing around. "Where is it?" I asked.

"Jacket," Sherlock replied.

I snapped my head around to stare at him in disbelief, but Sherlock merely kept his hands on the microscope.

"You _are_ joking," John said.

"No, it's fine," I assured. I stood up and slipped behind Sherlock before slamming one hand on his left shoulder and roughly pulling open his jacket with the other.

" _Careful,_ " Sherlock said irritably, still without looking up from the microscope.

I rummaged in his inside pocket until I found his mobile and looked at the screen.

"A text. It's Mycroft," I said.

"Delete it," Sherlock replied without any hesitation.

"Delete it?" John echoed.

"Missile plans are out of the country now," Sherlock said. "Nothing we can do about it."

I looked down at the message. It read: _RE: BRUCE-PARINGTON PLANS. Any progress on Andrew West's death? Mycroft._

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is," John said as he came to my side. "He's texted you eight times. Must be important." He peered at the mobile's screen from over my shoulder.

Sherlock raised his head in exasperation. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

John let out a sigh. "His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk," Sherlock said. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

With that, he looked back into the microscope. John held an expression that seemed to convey the words: _I_ am _going to kill him_. I switched off Sherlock's phone and placed it on the counter next to him while chewing my tongue.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," John said tightly.

"What for?" Sherlock said, looking up at him. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go cry by _their_ bedside and see what good it does them?"

John turned away in disbelief. I glanced between my brother and Sherlock, a conflicted twinge hitting my gut. John had always taught me the _right_ way to think, the _proper_ way. That people carried feelings and that to intentionally hurt them was wrong. That people's lives were precious and innocence was something to be preserved.

He'd taught me all these things, but the thing was... I never connected to them. I never understood why all of it was so important. I never could grasp why it mattered how I spoke to someone, or why I should lie in order to protect someone's feelings. It was a bizarre and twisted reality that I had no place in.

I cared about my brother—I cared about him enough to feel off when he was upset, to get angry when he was being threatened, and to actually make an effort to be normal for his sake. However, I cared about Sherlock too, and in all honesty, my views were closer to the detective's on this one.

Perhaps I could use some of the tools John had taught me over the years to try and smooth this over a bit.

"I think what Sherlock meant," I began slowly, "was that there's no use in focusing on the woman right now. We need to figure out the puzzle—whatever it is—that the bomber sent us. That requires all our attention right now."

"Not entirely what I meant, but sure, if it makes your brother feel better," Sherlock muttered.

I was tempted to thwack him on the back of the head, but he was still peering into the microscope and I didn't want to mess anything up. John looked about ready to smack the detective for me, but before anything could be done, the computer beeped a result.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed delightedly.

The screen was now flashing _SEARCH COMPLETE._ Of course, what the search was, I hadn't the faintest idea. While being clever, this was not my area of expertise; probably why Sherlock would always be the grand detective and John and I his sidekicks. I honestly didn't mind the arrangement.

"Any luck?"

Molly Hooper had entered the room and she seemed to notice the level of excitement on Sherlock's face. She looked about the same as when I'd briefly seen her the first time I'd come here: long ginger hair, thin lips, a pleasant face with wide, bright eyes. It was a bit odd; I hadn't seen her in any of the other times I'd come here with Sherlock. Part of me wondered if he'd planned it that way. I wouldn't put it past him to know all the employees schedules here at the hospital.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said triumphantly.

Given how Molly greeted Sherlock, I assumed she had seen him when he first came in. John and I had gone to grab lunch while the detective started on his lab work, which meant we'd missed her. Now, she glanced at the two of us with slight confusion.

"Er..." I began, wondering if I should introduce myself, but then someone else opened the door to the lab.

It was a man in his thirties, wearing slacks and a T-shirt. He halted when he saw the room was occupied and blinked apologetically.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't..." he began.

"Jim! Hi!" Molly greeted cheerfully.

Jim made to leave the room, but Molly called out to him again.

"Come in! Come in!" she said.

Sherlock glanced over at Molly briefly, running his eyes over her form and apparently making an instant deduction. He then looked back into his microscope. I frowned, wondering what the hell he just figured out just by looking at her.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced when Jim came further into the room.

"Ah!" Jim said in way of acknowledgement.

John turned toward them and Molly looked at him blankly. "And, uh... sorry."

"John Watson," John said, saving her from trying to recall a name I doubt she'd ever heard. "Hi."

"Hi." Jim smiled briefly before looking at me.

"Oh." I placed a hand on the back of my neck nervously. I hated introductions. "Maxine Watson."

"Oh, so you're married?" Molly asked, her eyes darting between John and me.

"No-no," John said instantly as I shook my head. "She's my sister."

"Oh." Molly looked a touch disappointed, though I had no clue why.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes," Jim said as he gazed admiringly at the detective. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He walked closer to Sherlock and John and I backed up to give him room.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly explained. "That's how we met. Office romance."

Oh. _Oh._ This made more sense now. I recalled the first time we met Sherlock how obvious it was that Molly fancied him, and how he would use that to his advantage. It would make sense why he would make sure she wasn't working when he brought me here. Molly had been disappointed that John and I were siblings because that meant Sherlock was keeping a woman around. If Sherlock wanted to keep on using Molly's yearning for him to help him get away with doing experiments and such here, he couldn't very well have her thinking he might be involved with someone.

Now Molly was bringing around this other man, perhaps in an attempt to make Sherlock jealous. She and Jim giggled as Sherlock glanced briefly round at Jim before returning to look into the microscope.

"Gay," he said off-handedly.

Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?" she said.

Sherlock raised his head as if he realized what he'd just done. John and I exchanged a small glance that was both weary and uncomfortable.

"Nothing," Sherlock said and gave Jim a false smile. "Um, hey."

"Hey." Jim smiled back at him, but his was anything but false. I was starting to get what Sherlock was getting at.

I went around Jim to stand at Sherlock's other side. I peered at the screen he'd been using, hoping that we could get back on task and away with whatever uncomfortable exchange this was turning into.

"Sherlock," I said, gripping his shoulder to get his attention. "Shouldn't we...?" I nodded toward the screen indicating we had work to do.

"Oh, sorry," Jim said instantly, glancing between the two of us. "Erm... are you two together? I didn't mean to butt in. Perhaps we could do a double date?" He looked up at Molly hopefully.

Molly looked appalled for a split second, then an awkward smile stretched across her face. "Er, yeah."

"No, Sherlock and I aren't together," I said. "We're just flatmates. John too." I nodded toward my brother.

"Oh!" Molly and Jim said in unison, both with strangely mirrored expressions of relief.

Jim had brought his hand to his mouth in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry, I didn't mean to assume," he said. "It's just... You two seem to have a sort of connection, I suppose. Um..."

He lowered his hand and knocked a metal dish off the edge of the table. He instantly scrambled to pick it up, giggling nervously.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he said.

John turned away, running a hand over his face. Sherlock's expression flashed with irritation as Jim put the dish back on the table. When he had bent down, I noticed the waistband of his underwear was peaking about his trousers. They were light blue and seemed to be of high-quality material.

Jim scratched his arm and wandered back over to Molly. "Well, I'd better be off," he said. "I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" Molly agreed.

Jim gently put a hand on her back before looking back toward Sherlock.

"Bye," he said.

"Bye," Molly said softly.

"It was nice to meet you," Jim added, his eyes still on Sherlock.

Did I look like that the first time I'd met Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson had noticed me staring at the detective and commented on it, but that was for different reasons, I'd imagine. I'd wanted to draw Sherlock for the challenge of his angular eyes and curly hair. I supposed his features were mesmerizing.

Sherlock didn't respond to Jim and merely continued to stare into his microscope. Jim gazed wistfully at him for a long moment until John finally broke the silence.

"You too," he said.

Jim blinked at John, his expression suddenly awkward. He then turned and left the room without another word. Molly waited until the door closed before turning to Sherlock.

"What d'you mean, gay?" she demanded. "We're together."

Sherlock looked over at her. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

I saw John grimace and my brows furrowed. One thing that my brother had drilled into my head was that commenting on another person's weight was never something to do in social situations.

"Two and a half," Molly countered.

"Nuh, three." Sherlock turned back to his microscope.

"Sherlock..." John began.

"He's _not_ gay," Molly insisted. "Why d'you have to spoil...? He's _not_."

Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John asked. " _I_ put product in my hair."

"You _wash_ your hair," Sherlock corrected. "There's a difference. He takes better care of his appearance than Max here. No-no—tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His _underwear?_ " Molly repeated in disbelief.

"It was blue," I said before thinking about it.

Molly latched her angry glare on me and I raised my hands in surrender.

"They were kinda hard to miss," I muttered.

"Visible about the waistline— _very_ visible; very particular brand," Sherlock said. He reached for the metal dish Jim had knocked over. "That, plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here..." He picked up a card and showed it to Molly. "...and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stared at him for a moment before turning and running out of the room without a word. Sherlock blinked, startled by her reaction. I frowned after her, rubbing the back of my neck again.

"Charming," John told Sherlock. "Well done." His tone was quite sarcastic.

"Just saving her time," Sherlock said. "Isn't that kinder?"

"'Kinder?' No, no, Sherlock." John shook his head. " _That_ was not kind."

"It wasn't?" I asked.

John gave me a shocked look. "You too?"

"What?" I shrugged. "I mean... perhaps wording it more tactfully would have helped. I know you always say bluntness isn't the best approach. But why let her go through that only to find out in the end he isn't interested in her at all?" I reached across Sherlock and plucked the card off the table. It was Jim's business card, but I was willing to bet the number listed was his mobile.

"The wording was the entire problem; and the tone," John said.

Sherlock shook his head before reaching over and gripping the trainers from the desk behind us. He plopped them onto the table in front of John.

"Go on, then," Sherlock prompted. Clearly, he was done with the previous conversation.

"Mmm?" John looked at the shoes blankly.

"You know what I do," Sherlock said. "Off you go."

The detective sat back and folded his arms expectantly. John gave off a few incoherent negative noises and looked at his watch.

"No," my brother said.

"Go on," Sherlock urged.

"I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate..." John said.

"An outside eye, a second opinion," Sherlock interjected. "It's very useful to me."

"Yeah, right!" John scoffed.

" _Really,_ " Sherlock insisted.

"Then have Maddie do it," John said.

Sherlock quirked a brow. "What's the different between the two of you doing it?"

"You won't berate her," John said.

"Oh no, he will," I said.

"Yeah, well it doesn't seem to bother you when he does that," John muttered.

"I want _both_ of you to look at it," Sherlock said. "I just know that I have to convince you. Max is always game for looking evidence over."

John let out a tight sigh and held Sherlock's gaze for a good number of seconds before saying, "Fine."

Clearing his throat, my brother picked up the shoe and looked at it and its partner on the table. I put Jim's card down and grabbed the other shoe to start examining it. I'd been waiting for Sherlock to let me handle them—he always got testy if I messed with evidence before he'd run all the tests and other diagnostics he needed.

"I dunno—they're just a pair of shoes," John said. "Trainers."

"Good," Sherlock said.

"Umm... they're in good nick," John went on. "I'd say they were pretty new... except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while."

Sherlock, who had started to look frustrated when John said they were new, breathed out a silent sigh of relief that his friend wasn't that stupid.

"Uh, they're very eighties," John said, "probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on _sparkling_ form," Sherlock told him. "What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's," John said, though there was a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"But...?" Sherlock waited patiently for John to go on.

My brother looked inside the trainer, then gestured for me to let him see the one I had. I held it out toward him and he peered inside it as well.

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip," he said. "Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

"Excellent," Sherlock said with a proud grin. He glanced toward me. "Max?"

"Well..." I looked over the shoe, examining the mud caked on the soles and the state of the leather. "John said a retro design, but... what if they were original?"

"Original?" John echoed. "But how? They look brand new."

"The owner might have taken really, _really_ good care of them," I suggested. "He very well might have adored these shoes—so much that he kept them in top condition. Look on the inside again, it seems more worn than the outside, doesn't it?"

Sherlock had started leaning toward me as I spoke. His eyes were wide and fascinated. He began to smile.

"Yes. Yes, Max," he breathed. "Both of you are doing _brilliantly._ What else?"

"What else?" John looked over his shoe again. "Er, nothing."

"Max?" Sherlock prompted.

"Uh..." I looked at the shoe again and shook my head. "Sorry, that's all I've got."

"How did we do?" John asked.

"Well John; _really_ well," Sherlock said. He paused for a brief moment. "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know..." His expression was full of sarcasm as he held out his hands for the shoes.

John handed his to him with a frustrated look while I sighed and plopped mine into his palm before sitting back down at his side.

"The owner loved these," Sherlock said. "Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, _four_ times."

John put his hands on the desk and lowered his head. I leaned over and glared at the trainer closest to me, wondering how in the hell the detective was able to tell that.

"Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema," Sherlock went on. "Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

John straightened up. "Twenty years?" he repeated. "Maddie was right on that?"

Sherlock nodded and grabbed his mobile. He showed the screen to John, where there was an image of the shoes. "Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

"But there's still mud on them," John argued. "They look _new_."

"Someone's kept them that way," Sherlock said, examining the trainer thoughtfully. "Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles, like Max said. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded toward the computer screen. There were two dots flashing on a map of Britain, one around the borders of East and West Sussex and the other to the south-east of London.

"Pollen," the detective explained. "Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?" John queried.

"Something bad," Sherlock murmured. He looked at John. "He _loved_ these shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So: a child with big feet gets..." He trailed off and stared ahead blankly. "Oh."

John looked across the lab, trying to see what our flatmate was looking at, but I knew Sherlock wasn't seeing anything we could. He was lost in his own mind. I gripped his shoulder.

"What?" I said.

"Carl Powers," Sherlock breathed.

"Sorry, who?" John said.

Sherlock was still staring into the distance. "Carl Powers, Watsons."

"What is it?" John pressed.

Sherlock's eyes finally focused and they flicked back and forth between John and me. "It's where I began."


	21. The Great Game, Part 3

_Maxine_

Much to my annoyance, Sherlock didn't care to elaborate until the three of us were in a taxi heading back to 221B Baker Street. As the cab pulled down the street, I looked over at the detective expectantly. When he continued to just stare out he window, I elbowed him in the gut.

"Gah! Max, that _hurt,_ " he complained.

"What did you mean 'where I began?'" I demanded. "You can't just say something like that then dart out of the room."

"I'm with Maddie on this one, actually," John admitted.

Sherlock loosed a breath through his nostrils. "Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid—champion swimmer—came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident."

The detective pulled out his mobile and showed the image of the front page newspaper. He'd been messing with his phone on the way out of the hospital—this must be what he was looking for.

"You two wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"But _you_ remember," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply.

"Something fishy about it?" John asked.

"Nobody thought so—nobody except me," Sherlock said. "I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

"Started young, didn't you?" John noted.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late," Sherlock explained, ignoring John's comment. "But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?" I said.

"His shoes." Sherlock looked out the window again, his brows furrowed.

"What about them?" John pressed.

"They weren't there," Sherlock said. "I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes..." He leaned down and picked up the bag containing the trainers. "...until now."

When we got back to the flat, Sherlock shut himself in the kitchen with the trainers nearby and looking over photographs and printouts of the newspaper reports regarding Carl Powers' death. I had only glimpsed this before he closed the sliding doors, leaving John and me out in the living room.

My brother paced across the carpet as I sat upside-down in Sherlock's usual chair by the fireplace. With my toes stretching toward the ceiling, I worried the yellow fabric of my scarf in my fingers. I had initially taken it off when we got home, but I found that it helped me think to have it on. It reminded me of Miyako—of when I finally awoke back in Japan and realized who I was.

"Why are you sitting like that?" John asked me.

"Reverses the blood flow," I said. "A yoga thing, I think. It's supposed to help people relax."

"How can you think about relaxing right now?" John demanded.

"Because being all wound up isn't going to help anyone," I said. "Least of all that crying woman."

John let out a long breath. "This is insane... when has there ever been a case of someone coming for Sherlock? Especially in this manner?"

Indeed. For the bomber to send the shoes that were directly linked to the first case Sherlock ever took an interest in... it suggested that he knew far more about Sherlock than even John or I did. Did this mean that it was someone Sherlock _knew?_ Or was it just someone who was very, _very_ good at research?

I found myself wanting to talk to Miyako. Perhaps she could help us figure out this case; perhaps she could think like a criminal and help us understand what to expect next or how to catch this guy. I missed having my mentor with me. I missed her explaining how people's minds worked and what selfish people would do. John had taught me about society well enough, but he focused on making me blend in and be presentable. Miyako taught me how to look for the crooks; the wicked and the vile.

"We're missing something," I breathed. "Something big. Something obvious."

"If it's obvious, wouldn't we notice it?" John asked.

I closed my eyes tightly, trying to think. I heard John slide open the kitchen door and talk to Sherlock inside. "Can I help?"

The detective didn't respond.

"I want to help," John pressed. "There's only five hours left."

There was the trill of two text alerts—one from John's phone and the other from mine. I opened my eyes and reached over to the coffee table awkwardly to grab my mobile as John fished his from his pocket.

Just as I opened my text, John called to me, "Maddie—who texted you?"

I read the message: _Any developments? Mycroft Holmes._

"Mycroft," I said in surprise.

"Yeah, me too," John said. "Sherlock, how does your brother know our numbers?"

I heard Sherlock's thoughtful voice drift out from the kitchen. "Must be a root canal."

"Look, he did say 'national importance,'" John said.

Sherlock snorted. "How quaint."

"What is?" John asked.

" _You_ are. Queen and country," Sherlock replied.

"You can't just ignore it," John pressed.

"I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now," Sherlock said.

"Right. Good." John folded his arms and nodded in satisfaction before looking at Sherlock in confusion. "Who's that?"

I gave out a small grunt of amusement. "Go off to the toilet, look into the reflective surface above the sink, and you will see a striking image of the man he's talking about."

"Did Max just make a joke?" Sherlock said in disbelief.

"She's sitting upside-down in your chair; I think too much blood has gone to her head," John muttered. "You want me to go to Mycroft?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Tell him I'm investigating now."

John appeared bewildered. "Why not go yourself?"

There was a silence, and I guessed that John read a sour expression off Sherlock's face.

"Right," my brother said. "Right, yeah. I'll go."

I heard a chair move and footsteps, then Sherlock stuck his head out the kitchen sliding door to look at me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Well, you obviously needed alone time," I muttered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you _sulking?_ "

"No," I said, grabbing my phone and examining Mycroft's text again in order to avoid looking at the detective.

"You're cross with me because I don't want your help?" Sherlock said, clearly surprised.

"Sorry, I just need to check my settings," I murmured, switching through my mobile's screens.

Sherlock strode over and snatched the phone out of my hand. I blinked at my empty palm for a moment before looking up—or down, depending on how one would like to view perspective when upside-down—at him.

"Give it back," I said faintly.

"Come to the kitchen," Sherlock said.

"So _now_ you want my assistance?" I grumbled. "I'll just go with John."

"No." Sherlock said the word so fast that John and I exchanged a surprised look.

"Why not?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, as if searching for inspiration. "I... I lost that bet, remember? Max needs to finish her sketch. I'd rather her do it when you're not here."

John let out a scoff of something between disbelief and amusement. "You're shy, are you? I thought that someone as self-centered as you would adore someone doodling your portrait."

"Why does everyone... never mind." Sherlock looked over at John. "Just go get the details from Mycroft about his silly memory stick."

"Don't you have more work with this current case?" John said. "Yet you're going to pose for a drawing?"

"I can do that while I think," Sherlock said. "You both know I do better when I think out loud and I can do that while Max does her bloody sketch."

The detective was tensed up, his shoulders stiffened and raised like the hackles of an angry cat. I couldn't help but wonder if me getting that sketch over with was his true reason for not wanting me to go see Mycroft. After all there were going to be more opportunities for me to finish his sketch when John went to work.

"All right," John conceded, still with a furrowed brow. "I'll go."

My brother went to gather his coat as Sherlock smacked my leg to signify for my to sit properly. I merely held out my hand expectantly and stared at him. The detective sighed and plopped my mobile back into my palm and then I twisted around to sit up, my curly ginger locks now sticking out every which way.

"Want anything while I'm out?" John asked from the living room door.

"No thanks," I said.

Sherlock didn't bother answering. He merely gestured for me to get out of his chair. I rolled my eyes and left it, going over to John's instead.

"Actually, bring me a chair," I joked. "Since you two always hog these ones."

John gave a small chuckle and went down the stairs.

After we heard the front door closed, I locked my eyes on Sherlock as he sat down.

"So why don't you want me going to see Mycroft, really?" I pressed.

Sherlock avoided my gaze. "Go get your drawing pad. I meant what I said, this gives me a chance to think aloud."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously before going to get my paper and pencil from the dining room table. I couldn't help but feel Sherlock was hiding something for me, but I knew he wasn't going to cave any time soon. Might as well take advantage of this and finish my sketch.

* * *

 _John_

I'd grabbed a tie on my way over to Mycroft's, feeling like dressing a bit nice might be beneficial. It felt a bit tight around my neck as I sat in the chair opposite an expensive looking desk in the large, rather intimidating office. I glanced at my watch anxiously just as the door behind me opened.

Mycroft Holmes strode in, careful to close the door behind him. There was a report in his hand that his eyes seemed glued to as he said, "John. How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long."

I stood politely as Mycroft walked toward his desk, still looking at the report.

"How can I help you?" Mycroft asked once he was past John. He placed the report on the desk and waved imperiously in my direction to signify that I could sit.

"Thank you," I said before sitting down. "Um, well, I was wanting to... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."

Mycroft smiled at me. "Did he?"

"Yes," I replied, smiling back a bit nervously, "He's investigating now."

Mycroft suddenly put a hand to the right side of his mouth as if in pain. I wondered if Sherlock was right about the dentist thing.

"He's er, investigating away," I went on awkwardly.

Lowering his hand again, Mycroft smiled at me as if he didn't believe a word of it.

"He sent you?" he said.

"Yes." I had thought we already established that.

"And only you," Mycroft said. "Not Maxine?"

I blinked. "Well, Mad- er, Maxine wanted to come, but..."

Mycroft's smile grew wider. "But Sherlock wanted her to stay with him."

"Uh, yes," I said slowly. "How did you...?"

"Just a theory I had," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair. "One that I was quite curious to find out if I was right or not."

I tilted my head. "What d'you mean?"

Mycroft simply smiled at me again. I exhaled, knowing that I wasn't going to be getting any more information on the matter, so I switched back to why I initially came.

"Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man," I said.

"Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross—er, M16. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies." Mycroft listed all the information with an air of practiced ease; he was clearly a well-spoken man. "Last seen by his fiancee at ten thirty yesterday evening."

"Right," I said. "He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."

"No," Mycroft said.

"What?" I blinked.

"He had an Oyster card..." Mycroft grimaced and raised his hand to his mouth again, furthering my suspicions of Sherlock being correct about the root canal. "...but it hadn't been used."

"Must have bought a ticket," I said.

"There was no ticket on the body," Mycroft replied.

"Then..." I frowned.

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft grinned bitterly. "That is the question—the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?"

"He-he's fine, yes," I assured weakly. "Oh, and-and _it_ is going... _very_ well. It's, um, you know—he's completely focussed on it." I smiled.

Mycroft didn't appear to be buying a word of it. He nodded and smiled back. "Give him my best. And Maxine as well—do mention I said hello to her, and make sure to do it in front of Sherlock."

"Why?" I asked slowly.

"Just testing that theory of mine," Mycroft said. "Good luck, Doctor Watson."

* * *

 _Maxine_

I was rather pleased with the sketch I had of Sherlock. I'd finished nearly an hour ago, and now that I had the "bones" of the picture, so to speak, I let the detective off the hook for posing. While I shaded in his hair from memory, Sherlock peered into a microscope at the kitchen table across from me.

Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door at that point, holding a tray with a couple of mugs. I glanced over when the warm scent of tea met my nose.

"Cheers," I told her when she set the tray on the table.

"Oh, look at that!" Mrs. Hudson said, noticing my drawing. "It looks just like him! Sherlock, have you seen this?"

"Poison," Sherlock said as he looked up from his microscope.

"What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a perked brow.

"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock slammed his hands down on the side of the table.

Mrs. Hudson cringed and fled the kitchen. Clearly, she didn't want to be around for one of Sherlock's excited episodes. Just as she was leaving, John came in from the living room. He was wearing a tie he hand't been when he left; I guessed he grabbed one on the way to see Mycroft.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock went on, ignoring the fact that our landlady left and that John was back.

My brother stared at Sherlock blankly, clearly at a loss.

"Carl Powers!" Sherlock pressed.

"Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John asked.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to where he'd hung up the laces from the trainers.

"Remember the shoelaces?" he prompted.

"Mmm," John replied while I nodded.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It's be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and he drowns."

I blinked, raising my brows. "The autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable," Sherlock said. "Nobody would have been looking for it."

The detective made his way round the table to where his computer notebook was lying. The page was open at the Forum of his own website: The Science of Deduction. He clicked over to the message box and began to type. I frowned and peered over his shoulder now that he was right beside me to see what he put in.

 _FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)._

Sherlock straightened up and pointed at the laces. "But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet," he said before bending down to type more.

 _Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St._

With that written out, Sherlock sent the message and leaned away from the computer.

"That's why they had to go," he finished, looking both exhilarated and a bit proud of himself.

"So how do we let the bomber know..." John began.

"Get his attention..." Sherlock said, looking at his watch. "...stop the clock."

"The message on your site," I murmured. "You think he'll be watching it?"

"I _know_ he will," Sherlock replied.

"The killer kept those shoes all these years," John said.

"Yes." Sherlock looked over at my brother. "Meaning..."

"He's our bomber." John grimaced.

The pink phone on the side table began to ring. Sherlock hurried over to it and switched it on speaker. The woman's voice came once again, still full of tears.

"Well done, you," she said. "Come and get me."

"Where _are_ you?" Sherlock asked, loud and clear. "Tell us where you are."

* * *

The next morning, the three of were in Lestrade's office at the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock was standing over at the main window which overlooked the main office. The detective's hands were raised in front of his mouth and his fingers were tapping together. John was sitting opposite Lestrade at his desk, looking a bit drained, but relieved as well. I paced slowly back and forth behind him, running my hand along the back of his chair each time I passed it.

"Maddie, can you stop?" my brother finally asked.

"Sorry," I said, moving my hands to my yellow scarf instead.

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade said, speaking about the woman the bomber took hostage. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house." He looked up at Sherlock as the detective walked toward the desk. "Told her to phone _you._ She had to read out from this pager."

Lestrade placed a pager on the desk in front of John, who picked it up and examined it.

"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock said.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John added.

"Oh. Elegant." Sherlock started walking back to the window again.

I pressed my lips in a tight line. This bomber certainly enjoyed making things high-stakes. It certainly couldn't be the last we'd hear of him.

"Elegant?" John echoed, looking back at him with a small sigh of exasperation.

"But what was the point?" Lestrade asked before Sherlock could reply. "Why would anyone _do_ this?"

"Oh—I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored," Sherlock said.

I remembered him shooting the wall just two days ago and grimaced. I had just suggested the previous day that our bomber was a high-functioning psychopath, especially if it was Moriarty—the same person who put Jeff Hope up to becoming a serial killer for money.

Just then, the pink phone beeps a message alert. All of us turned to look at Sherlock as he pulled the mobile from his pocket and activated it.

"You have one new message," the automated voice said.

As Sherlock walked back to the desk, the phone sounded the Greenwich pips again, but this time there are three short pips and one long one.

"Four pips," John noted.

"First test passed, it would seem," Sherlock said. "Here's the second."

He showed a new photograph to us; it was a close-up of a car with its driver's door open and the number plate clearly visible. John and Lestrade both stood to get a closer look while I merely strode over to Sherlock and wrapped my hand around his to peer at the mobile's screen. The detective seemed slightly taken aback by my actions, judging by his expression I caught when I looked up at him.

"It's abandoned—at least it looks that way," I said.

Sherlock held my gaze for a moment before nodding and glancing at Lestrade.

"I'll see if it's reported," the Detective Inspector said, going over to pick up his desk phone.

I released Sherlock's hand and he gave me one more slightly awkward look before placing the mobile on the desk for Lestrade to read the plate. I wondered why he was thrown off by that—we'd made physical contact before plenty times during our months living together. We'd even pretended to be a couple in front of Sebastian. So why was the detective acting like it was a strange thing?

Sergeant Donovan came in from the main office at that point, holding a phone. Her glare was fixated on Sherlock.

"Freak, it's for you," she said.

I found myself biting my tongue at her calling Sherlock _f_ _reak_ yet again, but there were more pressing matters at hand. If someone was calling for Sherlock just after we got the next message from the bomber, it had to be the culprit himself.

Sherlock walked over to the door and took the phone from Donovan as John sat down again. When the detective had the phone to his ear, he walked out into the main office. Too intrigued, I went after him, eager to hear the next task the bomber had for us.

"Hello?" Sherlock said as I reached his side.

There was a pause as whoever was on the other line replied. Because it wasn't on speaker, I couldn't make out the words, but I could tell whoever was on the other line was a male. Sherlock's expression instantly intensified and it was like the world around him melted away. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, wasn't paying any attention to anything but the voice on the other line.

"Who is this?" he asked. "Is this you again?"

The voice replied, but I still couldn't make out the words. I glanced back in Lestrade's office to see that John had noticed the look on Sherlock's face. My brother was sitting taller in his seat, appearing like he was about to get up.

I felt something tug my sleeve and I looked over to see Sherlock stooping somewhat to be on my level. He held the phone a bit away from my ear and gestured for me to lean in. I instantly obeyed, scooting closer to the detective so we could both hear the voice on the other line.

"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers," a man's voice said. He sounded on edge—frightened and a bit shaken. "I never liked him."

Sherlock and I exchanged a sharp look. The detective had been right—whoever killed Powers was our bomber.

"Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing," the man said.

John came out of the office now, staring at us in concern.

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock said into the phone.

"This is about you and me," the man said shakily. In the background, I could hear something roar by.

"Who _are_ you?" Sherlock asked.

More sounds came—strange whooshing sounds.

"What's that noise?" Sherlock said.

"The sounds of life, Sherlock," the man replied, still with a voice tight in fear. "But don't worry... I can soon fix that."

There was a small pause in which the man cried softly. I realized then that he had to be near a road—a busy one at that. If he was rigged with explosives like the woman had been, it would be more than just his life that was on the line this time.

"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours," the man went on once he contained himself. "This time you have eight."

The line went dead.

Sherlock and I locked eyes as he lowered his hand.

"What—are you two gonna kiss?" Donovan sneered as she came over, holding out her hand for the phone.

Sherlock straightened up and we both took a step away from one another. He slammed the phone back in Donovan's hand with an irritated glare. John was looking between the two of us worriedly.

"What? Was it him?" he asked.

However before either of us can respond, Lestrade came out of his office with a satisfied stride.

"We've found it," he declared.

Exchanging one last glance, Sherlock, John, and I followed after the Detective Inspector with new haste.

* * *

There was a large open space down by the river where the police had found the abandoned car. Forensic officers in protective clothing were swarming the vehicle like busy bees as Lestrade led us toward it. He and Sherlock were in the front while John and I lagged a bit behind with Donovan.

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade was explaining. "Banker of some kind; City boy. Paid in cash."

I noticed Sherlock examine a woman we passed who was speaking to a female police officer. The woman seemed to be distraught.

"Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived," Lestrade said.

He and Sherlock reached the passenger door of the car and before John and I could join them, Donovan turned toward us.

"You two still hanging around him," she said.

"Yeah, well..." John said, glancing around warily.

"Opposites attract, I suppose," Donovan said with a shrug.

"No, we're not..." John denied awkwardly.

"You should get yourself a hobby—stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer," Donovan told my brother. Then her eyes went tome. "Then there's you."

"Me?" I raised a brow at her.

"You seem nearly as off as he is sometimes." The Sergeant nodded toward Sherlock.

"There's really nothing _off_ about Sherlock Holmes," I said.

Donovan scoffed. "Isn't there? The man gets off on murder cases."

"The man _solves_ murder cases," I corrected her.

Donovan's eyes burrowed into mine. "You're awfully defensive of him."

"He's my friend," I said. "Of course I am."

"Men like Sherlock Holmes don't have friends," Donovan sneered. "What, do you fancy him?"

The question took me a bit off guard. I didn't expect the strange jolt it shot into my gut or the sensation of floating that consumed my mind for a moment. Strange—I never experienced that kind of feeling before. It was almost akin to what I felt when on these dangerous cases with Sherlock—the rush of adrenaline and thrill... I'd deal with whatever that was later. Right now, I wasn't about to give Donovan any form of satisfaction.

"It's really quite simple, Sergeant. If you treat Sherlock with respect, he'll give it back. Keep calling him _Freak,_ and he's bound to make every moment he spends with you a living hell." I eyed her carefully. "He's solved hundreds of cases, saved even more lives thanks to that, and you decide to constantly attack him because he bites back at you for being so horrid to him."

Donovan stared at me for a moment before angrily turning away and walking toward the car. A grin came to my lips and John shook his head at me.

"You've been wanting to do that for a while, haven't you?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"It's not usually like you to go out of your way to get into an argument," John said.

"Well, after hearing her berate Sherlock constantly, I knew I was bound to snap," I sighed. "Might as well do it when I have some semblance of control of myself."

John continued to look at me curiously for a moment longer before getting closer to the car. I followed over to stand behind Sherlock as he leaned into the car. There was a rather startling amount of blood smeared over the island between the two front seats.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood," Lestrade said as Sherlock opened the glove box. "The DNA checks out."

Sherlock rummaged in the glove box for a moment before taking what looked like a business card out. He closed the compartment and straightened up, eyeing it.

"No body," he stated rather than asked.

"Not yet," Donovan clarified tightly.

Sherlock ignored her. "Get a sample sent to the lab," he said.

Lestrade nodded and Sherlock turned and walked away. As he left, Lestrade fixed Donovan in a sharp glare. For a moment, she stared back indignantly, but when she noticed I too was looking her way, she grunted in exasperation and stomped away. Slightly pleased with myself, I followed after Sherlock and John.

The detective had gone over to the woman who had been speaking with the police officer.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock said.

The woman turned toward us, her eyes full of tears and her expression pained.

"Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen," she said.

"No, we're not from the police; we're..." John began to explain, but Sherlock stuck his hand out to her.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, his face falling into one of anguish and his voice trembling with grief. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um..." He blinked rapidly, as if trying to fight back tears. "...we grew up together."

Mrs. Monkford shook his hand, but she appeared confused. "I'm sorry, who?" she said. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

Sherlock sniffled. "Oh, he _must_ have done. This is... this is horrible, isn't it?"

John looked away, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to keep his face neutral. I bit my tongue and tried not to stare at Sherlock during his performance. I wasn't certain I'd ever cried in my life except when I was very, very young. The fact that he could do it on command like this was astounding. He sounded so believable—like he truly was about to have an emotional breakdown.

It just went to show the difference between the two of us. Earlier this week, we were talking about how similar we were, but I didn't think I'd ever be able to put forth this amount of emotion into anything—real or not.

"I mean, I just can't believe it," Sherlock went on. "I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian—not a care in the world." He smiled tearfully at the woman.

Mrs. Monkford was clearly going from confused to suspicious. "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who _are_ you?"

Tears began to trail down Sherlock's cheeks. I made a mental note to ask him to teach me how to do things like this.

"Really strange that he hired a car," he said, ignoring Mrs. Monkford's question. "Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't," she replied. "He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Oh, well, that was Ian!" Sherlock exclaimed with another sniffle. "That was Ian all over!"

"No it wasn't," Mrs. Monkford insisted, her voice now holding a touch of anger.

Like hot wax sliding down a candlestick, Sherlock's grieving persona fell and he stared at the woman intensely. "Wasn't it? Interesting."

With that, the detective turned and walked away. John and I hurried after him, not wanting to be left with the woman as she glared furiously after Sherlock.

"Who was I talking to?" I heard her demand of the police officer.

John caught up to Sherlock's side. "Why did you lie to her?" he asked as the three of us ducked under the police tape.

Sherlock plucked the gloves off his hands and wiped the tears from under his eyes. "People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?" John frowned.

I came in stride on my brother's other side. "Sherlock referred to her husband in the past tense," I said. "She didn't contradict _that_."

"Yes, bit premature—they've only just found the car," Sherlock said.

"You think she murdered her husband?" John asked.

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make," Sherlock said.

"I see," John murmured. Then, more clearly, he said, "No, I don't. What am I seeing?"

As we walked by Donovan, she called out to John.

"Fishing! Try fishing!"

John turned and gave her an exasperated nod before walking along again. I didn't bother to look back at the Sergeant. I'd given her my first warning; if she decided to be so disrespectful to Sherlock when I was around again, then I would be having a different conversation with her.

"Where now?" John prompted.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock said, handing the business card he'd grabbed earlier. "Just found this in the glove compartment."

* * *

We had six hours left.

I leaned on the wall by the door of the small office, rubbing the fabric of my scarf in my fingers. John was sitting on the other side of the desk to the owner of Janus Cars, a car hire company. My brother had a small notepad out and was jotting down notes while Sherlock stared out into the forecourt.

Ewert was the man we had the pleasure of speaking with. He was middle-aged, bore dark hair and was a touch on the portly side. However, despite the fact that we were meant to be conducting professional business—something that involved a man's life—I couldn't help but keep glancing at the sign behind Ewert's head.

It was meant to read _Janus Cars_ , that much I was certain. But someone went through the trouble of making the J and the C overly stylized. They appeared like open boxes tangling with one another. The rest of the font didn't go with it at all, which just made it appear like the J and C weren't part of the words written out.

The result: the sign read _anus ars_ instead.

I didn't generally get cracked up about immature humor—jokes about butts or passing gas or anything like that. I didn't generally get cracked up to begin with. But this complete butchery of logo art was about to have me in stitches. I kept running a hand down my mouth in order to fight the grin of amusement that was trying to force its way through.

"Can't see how I can help you gentlemen," Ewert said. "Er, and lady." He smiled awkwardly toward me.

Since my mouth was aching so badly, I ended up grinning back, but my eyes flickered to the sign again.

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John said. He seemed completely composed, so I assumed he either didn't notice the sign or was a lot better at me with hiding his amusement.

"Yeah," Ewert said. "Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

Sherlock strode over to the other side of the desk so that he was standing

beside Ewert. He pointed toward the forecourt.

"Is that one?" he asked.

Ewert turned his head to look and I noticed Sherlock's eyes dart down to look at Ewert's neck. My immature amusement over the sign gone for the moment, I frowned. What was so important about Ewert's neck?

"No, they're all Jags," Ewert said. "Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"

Sherlock straightened up as Ewert looked back round and smiled.

"But, er, surely _you_ can afford one—a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock said.

Where was he going with this? I had long since learned that Sherlock didn't ask or say anything without purpose and intent. He was fishing for information, but what was so important about this man's financial status?

"Yeah, it's a fair point," Ewert said. "But you know how it is: it's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

He reached up and scratched near the top of his left arm. Sherlock eyed the movement for a moment before turning away and heading around the room towards the other side of the desk.

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked.

"No, he was just a client," Ewert assured. "Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod."

Sherlock paused on the other side of the deskt. "Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" he asked.

"Eh?" Ewert seemed taken aback by the question.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock stared at him.

"Oh, the-the..." Ewert gestured toward his tanned face. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though—bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"What?" Ewert seemed startled by the change of subject.

"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," Sherlock said, offering Ewert a bank not. "I'm _gasping._ "

Not true. Sherlock used patches. So what was this about? What was he trying to accomplish?

"Um, well..." Ewert dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Hmm."

He opened the wallet to peek inside, and I saw Sherlock's eyes lock into whatever contents were within. I couldn't see from where I was standing, much to my annoyance.

"No, sorry," Ewert said.

"Oh well," Sherlock replied calmly. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert." He turned and headed for the door. "You've been _very_ helpful. Come on, Watsons."

When we walked across the forecourt, John glanced toward Sherlock.

"I-I've got change if you still want to, uh..." he trailed off awkwardly.

Sherlock patted his upper left arm. "Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well."

"So what was _that_ all about?" John asked.

"Wallet," I said.

"Huh?" John blinked at me.

"I needed to look inside his wallet," Sherlock clarified.

"Why?" John queried.

"Mr. Ewert's a liar," Sherlock replied simply.

John opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Sherlock waved him off. "When we get in the cab, I'll explain."

There was a moment of silence, but an image kept appearing in my mind over and over and I just couldn't shake it.

"Did anyone else see the sign?" I said, unable to keep it in any longer.

"Yes, _anus ars,_ I can't _un_ -see it," John muttered.

Sherlock snorted in amusement as we left the forecourt.

* * *

 _ **IMPORTANT NOTICE (A/N):::**_

Hey guys, I hope you liked the chapter! I just wanted to pop in to thank you guys for the delightful support with this story. This is the first one that is live action (basically anything but anime, heh heh) that I've ever done, so I felt like there was a different tactic to writing this one. I'm so glad so many like Maxine and her interactions with the boys.

However, I do have to drop a slightly unpleasant announcement: there won't be another update for this story until around mid December. There are several reasons behind this, so let me go through them with you.

1: I've reached how much I've had written out already and now officially need to write fresh chapters, which will make updating a bit more time consuming.

2: It's National Writing Month! (NanoWriMo). Basically, the challenge is to write out 50,000 words in the month, and this year I'm prioritizing my original works, specifically hardcore editing my second book. Due to a tragic file corruption I had a while back, I had to make the PDF version of the book back into a Word document and that TOTALLY screwed the formatting. So, since I was giving the first two books a major makeover, I figured I might as well retype out the sucker while editing. The second book is roughly over 130,000 words, and I'm at about 55,000 right now. The good news is, once this is done, I am never looking back at the first two books again and I can focus on getting the third book of the series out.

3: I am making a trip to another state between November 30 and December 5. My grandfather has Alzheimer's, and I am determined to go see him before... well, before he forgets who I am. It's pretty rough, especially since I just lost my grandmother to Parkinson's. So I ask that you guys give me a little leeway on that—I'm not certain how that trip will go or what my mental state will be when I get back.

All right, so those are all the main reasons, but I want to assure you guys, this story isn't going anywhere. Compared to some of my other fics, a month and a half hiatus is actually not that bad at all, to be fair, haha.

Again, thanks loads for the support. Hope you all had a hoppin' Halloween and have a great November! See you guys in December!

—Red


	22. The Great Game, Part 4

_Sherlock_

St Bart's lab was practically a second home to me by now. I carefully placed the shallow glass dish before me, staring at the large drop of blood inside it for a moment. Ian Monkford's blood—no doubt about that, according to Lestrade, and I knew that he wouldn't make a mistake on something like this. After speaking to Mrs. Monkford, I already had my suspicions, but absolutes were necessary, especially in the game the bomber was playing with me.

Moriarty... if that what who we were dealing with, I was eager to meet them in person.

I reached over to the bottle on my left and opened it before picking up a small dropper. Prudently, I dipped the dropper into the bottle to catch some drops of the liquid inside. Once it was half-full, I brought it over the the dish before me. Leaning over it, I gently squeezed the dropper and a small speck of the liquid landed on the blood, which instantly started to fizz and bubble.

Straightening up, I didn't even have time to smile in satisfaction before the pink phone on the counter began to ring. I snatched it up and stared at the ID. _BLOCKED._ Big surprise.

"Hello?" I answered, pressing the phone to my ear.

The same man from before was on the other like. "The clue's in the name," he said, his voice trembling. "Janus Cars."

I furrowed my brow. "Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" the man asked tearfully. "Because I'm bored. We were _made_ for each other, Sherlock."

"Then talk to me in your own voice," I said softly.

"Patience," the man replied shakily, and the line went dead.

I lowered the phone and stared across the room for a moment. The man was by a busy road still, and no one had even noticed him. Could it be that he was somewhere where passing pedestrians _wouldn't_ see him? Either way, attempting to go and save the man before the test was complete wouldn't end well, I was certain.

Looking back to the fizzing liquid in the dish, I picked it up and peered at it more closely. Yes—it was as I thought. A smile came to my lips. This blood wasn't what it seemed, not at all.

"Figure something out?"

I lifted my head to see Maxine step into the room. She eyed me curiously while pulling some of her ginger curls from her face. Her other hand was busy worrying the fabric of her yellow scarf.

"Frozen," I told her, placing the dish back down. "The blood."

Maxine came to my side and blinked. "Frozen... that seems off. So... hold on—the wife was all about that past tense stuff, you said. So..."

"So he faked his death," I said, once again pleased with how quickly Maxine caught on. She wasn't quite as quick thinking as I was, but somethings she really did impress me—her and her brother.

"Is that it, then?" Maxine asked. "Is that all we need to figure out? Or do we need this Monkford guy?"

"That would be unfortunate, considering he's not in the country," I replied.

"He isn't?" Maxine raised a brow.

"I'll explain on the way to the police car pound," I said, gathering up my things. "Where's John?"

"Getting a snack from the vending machine," Maxine said. "I told him he'd get diabetes if he just keeps eating nothing but sweets."

I grunted with amusement. "And he didn't listen?"

"John, listen to _me?_ " Maxine shook her head. "Clearly, you haven't been paying attention all these months we've been living together."

Oh, but I had—more than I cared to admit. I adverted my gaze and cleared my throat awkwardly. Maxine had caught my attention the very first time I met her, and even _still_ she continued to intrigue me. I didn't understand it; what was so _interesting?_ What made _her_ of all people fascinating to be around and observe? I couldn't help but want to learn more about her. I'd learned about her time in Japan, about her longing of excitement, but I still felt like it was barely scratching the surface.

Maxine... this strange young woman with ginger curls and wide, blue eyes... this young woman who craved danger and thrill. I smiled when I recalled her sitting upside-down in my chair—defiant and irate because I wasn't letting her help on a case.

"What're you grinning for?" Maxine suddenly asked, frowning at me.

"Er, still on the blood thing," I lied quickly. "Now we're catching on to this second test. Won't be long before I've got it."

Maxine let out a tight breath. "Four pips from his last call... which means there will be three more tests after this one. I'd assume each one is going to get harder as we go."

"Most likely." I finished getting my things and stood from the stool.

"Does it bug you?" Maxine suddenly asked.

"Sorry?" I frowned at her.

Maxine examined my eyes intently, her expression neutral but intense.

"This man—this bomber... he's targeting these people to get to you. Snagging innocent people off the streets to get to _you._ " Maxine's face didn't change, she just kept staring at me.

"I suppose I didn't think about it like that," I admitted. "I'm... a bit surprised that you're thinking of it that way."

"John brought it up," Maxine said with a small shrug. "I think he was a little irritated after your disregard of the first hostage's wellbeing—or rather, your _apparent_ disregard."

I sighed heavily. "Someone like this would be doing awful things to innocent people regardless if I was around or not," I said. "His actions are not _my_ responsibility. It's ridiculous to think otherwise."

Maxine nodded. "That's what I was thinking too. But I suppose the human reaction is to feel some semblance of guilt."

I blinked and tilted my head at her. "Are you saying I'm not human?" I asked with a small laugh.

"Of course not," Maxine said quickly. "I just... I don't know. I'm trying to piece together how much alike we are and where our differences lie."

"Why are you trying to do that, exactly?" I queried.

Maxine adverted her gaze. "You seem so certain of who you are, Sherlock. Of what you want and what you like. I feel as if all my life, a veil has been over that part of me—hiding everything that can make me feel... alive. Miyako pulled the veil back a bit, but I'm still having trouble seeing past it."

"You certainly like your metaphors." I bit my lip for a moment, trying to think of what to say.

I knew that my blunt honesty caused a lot of people to grow agitated with me, and usually I wouldn't hesitate even despite that. However, Maxine was different. I could still see her angered face the day I shot up the wall in our flat. My gut tightened uncomfortably at the thought of seeing it again.

In the end, I couldn't find any other way to phrase it to her. So I swallowed and started speaking, hoping my tone sounded soothing rather than direct.

"I can't determine who you are, Max," I said. "Neither can Miyako. Neither can John. Regardless of how much we have in common or don't, just because we share a... a diagnosis, doesn't mean that it will give you whatever answer you're looking for."

Maxine met my eyes again. Hers were a stone-blue, the color of hemimorphite. For a while, I thought they resembled smithsonite, but the more I looked at them, the more I noticed that they were more blue than green in shade. I had to wonder why I examined her so much that I managed to categorize her iris color to gemstones without even realizing it.

"Yes, of course, that makes sense," Maxine said, though her voice was small.

I felt my face fall. _Oh, don't do this to me,_ I wanted to say. I didn't usually go out of my way to try and make people feel better—not unless it was a dire situation like with Sarah and the Black Lotus—but Maxine's eyes seemed so lost. She seemed so... sad. I didn't think I'd ever seen Maxine _sad._

"It doesn't mean that I won't try and help you," I said before I could stop myself.

Maxine lifted her head. "What?"

"Y'know..." I muttered awkwardly, shrugging. "The only way to really figure yourself out is to... keep living, right? So we keep going on, and I'm certain along the way you'll know what it is you want and what you like. I'm sure your brother will help too. Have you... have you talked to him about this?"

Maxine grinned a bit sheepishly. "Not exactly. John is still coming to terms with how much I enjoy this." She gestured toward me. "Er—the cases, I mean. The peril and such."

"Odd, considering how much he enjoys it too," I pointed out. "Remind him of that some time."

"Remind who of what?"

John came striding back in the room at that moment. He had a candy in his hand, the wrapper peeled down the bar to allow easy access. There was already a few bites out of it.

"You to stop gorging on sweets," I said swiftly as Maxine glanced warily back at her brother.

"I hardly _gorge_ on them!" John defended.

"C'mon," I said, heading toward the door. "We need to get back to that car, and can one of you phone Lestrade?"

* * *

 _Maxine_

My talk with Sherlock buzzed in my head as we stood around Monkford's borrowed car in the police car pound. He'd given me some surprisingly decent advice for my current predicament and I was fathomed by how much better I already felt. However, things still nagged in my head. Growing up, John taught me how important it was to be mindful of others and polite. He taught me to _care_ about other people, or at least he tried to.

To a point, it worked. I was aware that there were innocent people dragged into this; that their lives were at stake. However, I couldn't _connect_ with them. I couldn't seem to worry about it as much as I should, and that in turn made me anxious. None of it felt natural to me; I was a stranger in my own skin.

Sherlock's words helped ease that sensation a bit, but I was still struggling with it. I still didn't understand who I was supposed to be or what I wanted.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, bringing me back to the present.

We stood in a garage, the scent of stale dust hung in the air with the aroma of petrol. It was cold; I assumed there was no need heating a room like this. I clenched my fingers in the fabric of my scarf and rubbed them together in an effort to warm them up. I should have brought my gloves.

Lestrade looked at the bloodstains in the car. "How much? About a pint."

"Not _about,_ " Sherlock said. " _Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Lestrade echoed.

"There are clear signs," Sherlock replied. "I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

" _Who_ did?" John asked.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock said. "The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces," John murmured.

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded.

"Mmm." John's face lit with understanding.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem—money troubles, bad marriage, whatever—Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble—financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..."

"So where is he?" John queried.

Sherlock closed the car door. "Colombia."

" _Colombia?!_ " Lestrade exclaimed.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet," Sherlock explained. "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No-one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

"His arm?" I repeated, raising my brows.

"Kept scratching it," Sherlock said. "Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he's just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"M- _Mrs._ Monkford?" John stammered in disbelief.

"Oh yes. She's in on it too," Sherlock nodded.

"Makes sense," I said. "She was insisting her husband was depressed, and she went along with Sherlock with that whole... past tense thing."

Lestrade lowered his head, his expression filled with amazement.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector," Sherlock said. "That's what you do best." He turned to John and me. " _We_ need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

Sherlock turned and began to lead us out of the garage, leaving Lestrade to stare after us with a still-in-shock face. I had to admit, I was impressed. Solving cases within hours of getting them—that was impressive even for Sherlock, especially with how strange and off-the-wall these ones were.

Even as I thought this, Sherlock clenched his fists triumphantly at his sides as he walked and exclaimed, "I am on _fire!_ "

When we got back to the flat, it was cold. We couldn't turn on the heating or light a fire and the windows were still broken and boarded up, leaving us exposed to the chill of early Spring London air. We elected to leave our coats on when we sat in the living room. I had gone to my room and found a pair of black gloves and was now breathing out of my mouth onto my fingers to heat the fabric. John sat in his usual chair and he looked anxious. Sherlock sat opposite him, typing into his computer; making a new message in his website, undoubtedly.

Shortly after he finished, the pink phone rang and Sherlock answered it on speaker.

"He says you can come and fetch me," the man on the like said. His voice was still tearful and shaky. "Help. Help me, please."

* * *

The following morning, Sherlock, John, and I were sitting at a table in a cafe. John was tucking into a cooked breakfast and had a mug of tea in front of him. Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table waiting for the pink phone—which was lying on the table—to ring. I had an empty plate in front of me and a mug of tea in my hand, having already finished some delightfully fluffy pancakes.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, mainly John.

"Mmm," John grunted in approval of his filling stomach. "You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?"

"We haven't really gotten the chance to," I pointed out. "Except for this time—bit more room between tests, huh? Think he's being considerate?"

"It wouldn't be any fun if we ended up just bowing out from exhaustion," Sherlock said. "There's no glory in winning then."

"Has it occurred to you...?" John began, eyeing Sherlock carefully.

"Probably," Sherlock replied.

"No—has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes—it's all meant for you," John said.

Yes, it was something he was talking to me about when we were back at Bart's and he was off to get into the vending machines. It was clear that the bomber was interested in Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

"I just don't see how he can be so calm," John had told me. "He's connected to this—connected to the reason these people were abducted and could die. Can't he feel guilt? Or-or something?"

"It's not _his_ fault some nutter is interested in him," I had argued. "C'mon, Johnny, you know that."

"I suppose," John sighed. "But still..."

Coming back to the present, I saw Sherlock smile at my brother. "Yes, I know," he said.

"Is it him, then?" John prompted. "Moriarty?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said.

We'd already talked about the possibility a few days ago. I assumed that John was trying to affirm if the bomber himself was Moriarty or if we had another Jeff Hope situation. Like my brother, my bets were on the former. All the messages... the strange and tricky situations that were being thrown at us... the bomber had the last man tell Sherlock they were _made_ for each other.

"Ah, I almost forgot..." John suddenly said, lifting his head from his meal.

Sherlock and I looked at him curiously.

John seemed embarrassed—or something like it. He glanced warily between the two of us then pursed his lips for a moment. His free hand clenched up and he ran his thumb over his fingers: the classic sign of him trying to decide what to do next.

"Er, Mycroft says hello, Maxine." John instantly went to keep eating, as if nothing had happened.

I blinked. "He... he told you to tell me 'hello?'" I leaned forward, trying to get my brother to look me in the eye.

"Mm-hmm," was all John said; his mouth was full.

Sherlock had stiffened beside me. He looked out the window, his lips pressed in a tight line and the hand resting on the sill tightened into a fist. I knew that look. He was irritated— _more_ than irritated. It was an expression that only came to him when someone had annoyed or angered him to a point beyond words. It didn't happen often. In fact, I was fairly certain only Mycroft was able to gain this kind of reaction from the detective.

Regardless, I didn't understand why Mycroft's message made him react like this. What about that would make Sherlock angry, of all things? Surely a touch of annoyance was to be expected from Sherlock at any mention of his older brother, but this... this didn't make any sense to me. Every time I thought I understood Sherlock, he'd do or say something that would toss me back out in the fog.

I opened my mouth to ask Sherlock why he was so upset, but before a word could leave my lips, the pink phone on the table chimed a message alert.

The anger washing away from Sherlock's face, he snatched up the mobile and switched it on. The Greenwich pips were back: two short ones and a long one. Along with them came a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman. She had short blond hair, and a rather heavy-set face.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock grunted.

"Well, it _could_ be, yeah," John said, peering at the picture. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly," John said.

He stood up and strode over to the counter. Giving a smile to the woman standing behind it, he picked up the remote control and switched on the small television hung on the wall. Sherlock and I both watched as my brother flipped through a few channels before he finds what he wanted. The woman from the photograph was on the screen and it appeared like she was a host of some sort of show. She gestured to someone just offscreen.

"Thank you, Tyra!" she said cheerfully. "Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, _now?_ "

The pink phone began to ring, tearing our attention off the telly. Sherlock picked it up and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

I gave him a hard look and he let out an inaudible sigh before putting the phone slightly away from his ear. I leaned in close, causing our arms to press up against one another so I could hear. John looked a touch frustrated that he couldn't listen in as well, but we couldn't exactly put the phone on speaker in a public cafe.

"This one... is a bit... defective. Sorry."

The voice on the other line was a Yorkshire accent, and from what I could tell, it was an old woman. Her tone was tremulous; clearly terrified.

"She's blind," the old woman went on. "This is... a funny one."

John came back to the table after seeing our expressions change. Surely he knew there was yet another hostage.

"I'll give you... twelve hours," the old woman said.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.

"I like... to watch you... dance." As the old woman finished speaking, she gasped and began to sob.

The line went dead.

Sherlock shook his head at John as he lowered the phone. I scooted away from the detective, rubbing my brow.

"A blind old woman this time," I muttered to my brother.

His face fell into horror for a moment before he clenched his jaw in anger. John had empathy, I realized; he had a lot of it. Sometimes, I wondered if that was a hinderance or not to him. Did it make it more difficult to work cases? Did it distract him from thinking clearly?

"...and I see you're back to your bad habits," the woman on the TV was saying.

The three of us looked to the telly again and saw that a news headline had appeared at the bottom of the screen as a voiceover replaced the woman's words. The headline read: _Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48._

"...continuing into the sudden dead of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince," the news reader said. "Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead."

"Our next test," I said, nodding to the telly.

"So it seems," Sherlock murmured. "Let's go."

* * *

I was starting to think we were going to be at St Bartholomew's Hospital every day this week. Down in the morgue, Connie Prince's body was laid out on a table with a sheet covering everything but her head, arms, and collar bone.

This time, Sherlock didn't have to do anything to convince Molly to allow us access—not that I think she would have after Sherlock's last encounter with her. Lestrade led us into the room and read from the file in his hand.

"Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly." The Inspector looked toward us. "Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock answered, his eyes on Connie's corpse.

Meanwhile, I was frowning at the fact that Connie's chart said she was fifty-four when the news stated she was forty-eight. She had been a TV personality, it wasn't ludicrous to imagine her lying to the media about her true age. It seemed a lot of folks didn't like the idea of growing older.

"Very popular," Lestrade said. "She was going places."

I wondered is the Inspector often watched make-over shows on the telly. It seemed out of his character, but then again, John immediately knew who Connie was when we got her photo.

"Not any more," Sherlock said. "So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound."

Sherlock and John both moved forward to examine the gash in the webbing between Connie's right thump and index finger. I remained beside Lestrade; this part of the investigation was definitely more in John's neck of the woods.

"Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream—goodnight Vienna," Sherlock murmured.

"I suppose," John said, though he hardly looked convinced.

"Something's wrong with this picture," Sherlock said.

"Eh?" Lestrade frowned toward him.

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong," Sherlock insisted.

The detective narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the body, then bent closer to examine Connie's right arm as he pulled out his magnified from his pocket. I took a small step closer out of curiosity and saw that there were several scratched on her upper arm—they almost looked like claw marks. Sherlock moved up toward her face, but I couldn't see what he noticed there, if anything, not without the magnifier.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"Mmm," John responded.

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John confirmed.

"But the wound's clean—very clean—and fresh," Sherlock went on. He looked up, eyes flickering about, a clear sign he was thinking everything through. Then, he straightened up and clicked the magnifier closed. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight, ten days," John replied.

Sherlock quirked a one-sided grin and turned to my brother expectantly. It didn't take John long to put it all together.

"The cut was made later," he said.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade asked.

"Must have been," Sherlock said. "The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?"

John looked along the body thoughtfully. I took a step back to stand beside Lestrade again. I felt a tad useless here. I didn't know much about biology or how nervous systems worked or anything like that. Lestrade and I were in the same boat this time.

"You want to help, right?" Sherlock asked my brother.

"Of course," John said.

"Connie Prince's background—family history, everything. Give me data." Sherlock said.

"Right." John immediately turned and headed out of the room, patting me on the shoulder as he went. He must have noticed my lost expression and was trying to make me feel better.

Sherlock looked over Connie's body one more time before starting toward the door as well. I fell in step beside him, but Lestrade spoke up before we could get far.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," the Inspector said.

"Is there?" Sherlock asked casually.

"Yes," Lestrade insisted. "Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber?"

Sherlock paused with our backs to the Inspector. I glanced at him to see he actually seemed a bit anxious.

"If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?" Lestrade went on.

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock suggested over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant.

"...who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade said disbelievingly.

" _Bad_ Samaritan," Sherlock corrected half-heartedly.

"I'm-I'm serious, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Listen: I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you—but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

Sherlock looked forward again thoughtfully. The two of us shared a small glance and the detective smiled with delight.

"Something new," he said before plucking my sleeve in a gesture to follow him out of the morgue.

* * *

With only a little over three hours left to go, Sherlock, Lestrade, and I were back at 221B Baker Street while John was still out gathering information on Connie Prince. Sherlock had covered the wall behind the sofa in paperwork: maps, photographs of Connie Prince—both when she was alive and pictures taken at the morgue—photos of Carl Powers, press cuttings and various sheets of paper with notes scribbled on them. Pieces of string were pinned between some of the exhibits, linking them together. It really looked like an episode out of a crime show in here.

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he paced back and forth in front of the wall of papers. "There _must_ be a connection."

I was lying on the sofa, staring up at the display he'd put together. I'd left my scarf on, considering it was still rather chilly in the living room, and rubbed my fingers against the fabric. Sherlock had barely said a word to me as he'd put all of this together, and he'd spent the last several hours trying to piece things together. I was just as lost as he was; probably more so. None of it made sense to me. All I could think of was that this bomber— _Moriarty—_ was playing a game with Sherlock. Perhaps it was as simple as that: just a sick, twisted game...

"Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago," Sherlock said, pausing in his pacing and gesturing to the wall. "The bomber _knew_ him; _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." The detective's expression twisted in frustration. "What's he doing—working his way round the world? Showing off?"

"They seem to be random," I noted.

"Doesn't seem likely," Sherlock said. "He puts a clue in everything. It seems like all of his acts are intricately _deliberate._ "

"Or he just wants you to think they are," I suggested.

"Why would anyone do that?" Lestrade breathed.

"Why does anyone do anything?" I repeated the bomber's words from our second test.

Sherlock met my eyes and frowned. "You really think it's that simple?"

"I think that his motives are the same as yours, Sherlock, and you think so too," I said. "Boredom is a horrible thing to a brilliant mind. He's clearly intelligent, and now he's found someone who can actually be a challenge—who he can play with. It's a game. A great game."

Sherlock rubbed his brows. "Yes, yes, that's his _motive_ but..."

"If he's already proving to be someone who is just looking to amuse himself, then why put effort into every single aspect of this?" I said. "Random events can help cover his trail. Though..."

Sherlock and Lestrade raised their brows at me with equally expectant expressions when I trailed off.

I let out a small breath. "I'm going to guess he will reveal himself soon enough. Probably for that last pip."

The pink phone began to ring in Sherlock's pocket. The detective pulled it out and switched it on speaker. Before Sherlock can speak, the old woman's voice came out, still shaky and tearful.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked. "Joining the... dots." She sobbed softly. "Three hours: boom... boom."

The old woman cried in terror, and then the line cut. Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a moment before pocketing the mobile again and getting to his feet. He turned to face the wall again and raised his hands in the prayer position, his gaze sharpening with concentration.

* * *

A/N:::

Hello, darling readers, I apologize this is coming out later than I anticipated. I've been backed up with a lot of family issues as well as some health problems of my own and everything seemed to hit at once. With all that on top of the holidays, I didn't have much time to writing much of anything, even my original works. But regardless, here's the new chapter and I'm going to be switching my schedule up to biweekly on Fridays just to give myself some breathing room until things calm down. So you guys can expect the next update to be on Friday the 11th. Love all of you, hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful New Year!


	23. The Great Game, Part 5

_John_

The living room I was led to was gorgeous and elegantly decorated. Kenny Prince, a man in his late fifties wearing a fancy purple shirt, was the first to entered the room while a far younger man, Raoul, paused at the doorway and gestured for me to go next. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and went in, trying not to gawk at the ludicrously expensive furniture and decor.

"We're devastated," Kenny said as he strode across the room. "Of _course_ we are." He paused by the mantlepiece and propped an arm on it.

I followed after him and glanced around. There was a sofa that could probably pay for a year's worth of my rent sitting close by with a hairless cat wandering around on it. It gave a meow every so often, as if trying to seek attention. I sat down on the sofa on the opposite end of it.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Raoul asked me.

"Er, no," I said. "No, thanks."

Raoul looked across the room to Kenny, who smiled at him. Raoul returned the smile before turning and leaving the room.

"Raoul is my rock," Kenny explained. "I don't think I could have managed." He looked down, his face growing saddened. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

The hairless cat walked onto my lap and began to get comfortable. I prudently picked it up and placed it on the cushion next to me as it gave a meow of protest.

"And-and to the public, Mr. Prince," I added, hoping to sound comforting.

"Oh, she was adored," Kenny sighed. "I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses."

The hairless cat climbed into my lap again. I didn't think it was going to take no for an answer when it came to cuddling.

"Still, it's a relief in a way to know that's she's beyond this vale of tears," Kenny went on.

The cat purred contentedly in my lap as I awkwardly replied, "Absolutely."

Kenny proceeded to stare thoughtfully at a framed photograph of his sister holding her TV award. I glanced down at my notebook and cleared my throat.

"It's more common than people think," I said. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un..."

I trailed off when Kenny abruptly plopped down on the sofa next to me, causing the can to meow indignantly and hop off my lap. Kenny stared into my eyes intently and all I could think to do was finish my last word.

"...treated..."

Kenny's leg was pressed up against mine. He was a bigger fellow and there was hardly any room to scoot away on the sofa.

"I don't know what I'm going to _do_ now," he said lamentably.

"Right," I said, trying not to let my nerves show. I wasn't often comfortable with people getting into my personal space, especially if I didn't know them.

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely..." Kenny went on.

I glanced around the room, squinting slightly. _Expensive,_ certainly, but _lovely_ wasn't exactly what I would call it. All the lavish decor just wasn't my taste.

"...but it isn't the same without her." Kenny continued to gaze at me.

I fidgeted as I attempted to move further away from him, but once again, the sofa was just too small. "Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No," Kenny replied.

"Right." I nodded nervously.

"You fire away," Kenny said, still staring at me intensely.

The cat meowed as it trotted across the carpet. I watched it go as I reached up to rub the side of my nose where an itch had developed. For a moment, I was confused when a whiff of disinfectant invaded my nostrils. Had I touched something back at Bart's lab? But no, I'd washed my hands since then.

Pretending to itch my nose again, I took another sniff. It was faint, but it certainly smelled of disinfectant. If it hadn't come from the lab, then what had I touched that smelled of it? I glanced at the cat, almost frowning in wonder before looking toward Kenny nervously.

I needed to call Sherlock.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Mrs. Hudson had joined us up in the living room. She'd brought us some tea and snacks, which Lestrade and I were very grateful for. I sipped on my cup from my spot on the sofa as Sherlock finished up a phone call on his mobile.

"Great..." he was saying as he strode toward the fireplace. "Thank you. Thanks again."

Mrs. Hudson was staring sadly at the photographs of Connie Prince on the wall behind me. "It's a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."

Lestrade looked toward her. "Colors?"

"You know..." Mrs. Hudson gestured down to her clothes. "...what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me." She nodded toward me. "And Maxine can wear greens and yellows, but never any shades of pink because of her ginger hair. Clashes, you see."

"Good to know," I murmured into my cup.

Sherlock came back toward us while pocketing his phone.

"Who was that?" Lestrade asked him.

"Home Office," Sherlock replied casually, looking at the wall.

"Home Office?" Lestrade echoed in surprise.

"Well, Home Security, actually," Sherlock clarified. "Owes me a favor."

"Of course they do," I said, getting to my feet to stand beside him.

Now all four of us were staring at the wall of papers. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and sighed.

"She was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They _all_ do these days," she said.

I recalled how the news thought Connie was 48 when she was actually 54 and grimaced.

"People can hardly move their faces," Mrs. Hudson went on. "It's silly, isn't it?" She gripped my arm. "Promise me you won't do anything like that, Maxine."

I opened my mouth to vow I'd never do such a thing, but Sherlock spoke before I could.

"Max doesn't need anything like that," he said. "That would be like making changes to an already lovely painting."

I blinked a few times and looked round at him. Had Sherlock just paid my looks a compliment? That didn't seem like the sort of thing he would pay attention to. He seemed to just be registering what he said and his expression grew a tad nervous, like he hand't meant to say those words out lout. Luckily for him, Mrs. Hudson hadn't noticed.

"Did you ever see her show?" she asked him.

"Not until now," Sherlock said, clearly relieved about the change in subject.

He turned and picked up his computer notebook off the desk and opened it. A video started to play immediately, showing that he had been in the middle of watching it earlier. It was footage of Connie's make-over show and she was talking to her brother, Kenny Prince, in the studio.

"You look _pasty,_ love!" Connie said.

"Ah." Kenny awkwardly looked toward the audience. "Rained every day but one!"

"That's the brother," Mrs. Hudson explained. "No love lost there, if you can believe the papers."

"So I gather," Sherlock said. "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites—indispensable for gossip."

On the video, Connie was gesturing to Kenny's clothing. "There's really only one thing we can do with that ensemble, don't you think, girls?" She got to her feet and began to rhythmically clap and chant, "Off! Off! Off! Off!"

The audience took up the chant and clapping with the enthusiasm of a cult and by the third _"Off!"_ Connie was beating her hands quite hard on Kenny's back while he dropped his jacket to the floor. He grimaced in pain as he unbuttoned his shirt, but then turned a false smile toward the audience.

I wasn't exactly good at dealing with people and their emotions, but it was clear to see that Kenny wasn't too keen on this.

"Mmm..." Mrs. Hudson frowned and shook her head sadly. "I'll go gather us some more nibbles, shall I?" She smiled to each of us and then headed out the door and downstairs to her own flat.

Sherlock set the notebook on the desk again and studied the video with a furrowed brow.

"Motive?" I suggested, nodding toward Kenny on the screen, who was still awkwardly undressing.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade glanced between the two of us as the video ended. The Inspector looked like he wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it and bit his lip instead. At that point, Sherlock's mobile began to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, and a quick glance at the caller I.D. over his shoulder told me it was my brother calling.

"John," Sherlock greeted when he answered.

There was a brief pause and I heard John's voice talking on the other line, but I couldn't make out his words.

"I'll remember," Sherlock assured. More words from John, then Sherlock nodded. "We're on our way."

The detective pocketed his phone and looked at me.

"Is he all right?" I asked.

"Grand," Sherlock said. "We need to head over, though. Are you ready for some improvised acting?"

I tilted my head at him. "Why, is Sebastian there?"

Sherlock snorted in amusement. "No. Nothing like that this time."

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked.

"John thinks he's onto something," Sherlock explained. "Max and I are going to help him. We'll meet you back at your office, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Just... do try to hurry. We don't have much time left."

"We will," I assured him as he headed out the door.

Sherlock began to walk toward his room. I followed after him at a trot.

"What exactly are we doing?" I asked.

"John went to Kenny Price under the premise of getting a story for his paper," Sherlock said. "We're going to be his photographers. Well, _I_ am. Dunno why any paper would have two photographers come to the same place."

"Should I just stay here, then?" I asked. "I could do some more research on Connie."

"No, no," Sherlock said. He hesitated just outside his bedroom door. "I, er, do better with company, remember?"

"Right," I said, furrowing my brow.

Sherlock had been acting stranger and stranger the past couple of days. I wasn't certain if it was about the bomber or something else.

"So..." I said slowly. "What am I, then? Assistant photographer?" I smiled wryly.

Sherlock waved me off. "Sure, why not? You can act as the person who sets the poses and..." He sighed and shook his head. "We'll figure it out."

With that, he opened his bedroom door and stepped inside.

I remained just outside of his room, realizing that in all the months I'd lived at 221B Baker Street, I'd never actually been inside it. From what I could see, it was cluttered and messy just like the rest of the flat at the moment. Clothing lay scattered around a wardrobe and dresser in the left-hand corner and the sheets were half-off the bed in a tangled heap. There was a small desk with a few books stacked on it as well as some stacks of paper.

Sherlock stepped to the right and out of my sight in search for something. I didn't dare enter without his permission, so I remained where I was, shifting foot-to-foot nervously. Eventually, the detective came back with a large black bag over his shoulder and a narrow case in his hand. I assumed the case held a tripod to mount a camera on.

"What?" he said, noticing my expression.

"Er..." I couldn't exactly tell him that I was nervous about being near his bedroom. "Just... worried about John."

"Right." Sherlock moved past me, closing his bedroom door behind him. "Then let's get going."

* * *

When we walked into the living room of Connie Prince's (now Kenny Prince's) home, I stared around in bewilderment. How could somebody stand this much decor? Everything was bright, glittering, and gaudy. The whole place smelled very clean, and I guessed that had to do with the houseboy, Raoul, who led us in from the front door.

John was standing near an expensive-looking sofa and Kenny was over by the fireplace. Sherlock instantly strode toward him.

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" he greeted.

"Yes," Kenny replied, looking between Sherlock and me with a bit of surprise. I didn't think he was expecting more company.

"Very good to meet you," Sherlock said with a nod.

"Yes; thank you." Kenny glanced toward me when I paused by my brother.

"Mmm, yes, this is, er, my sister, Maxine; she helps with editing," John said, patting me on the shoulder. "And Sherlock, our photographer."

"Ah." Kenny seemed to relax a bit, though I wasn't sure why.

Sherlock shook his hand. "So sorry to hear about..."

"Yes," I added, hoping I sounded convincing. "A tragedy."

"Yes, yes, very kind," Kenny said.

"Shall we, er..." John gestured to Sherlock's bag.

Kenny turned to look at a nearby mirror and began to fix up his dusty brown hair. Sherlock came over to us and put his case down on the sofa before rummaging in his bag. John leaned close to him.

"You were right," he whispered. "The bacteria got into her another way."

Sherlock smirked toward him. "Oh yes?" By his expression, I got the impression that he found John to be a child who insisted he could fly.

"Yes," John said.

"Right." Kenny turned toward us. "We all set?"

"Um, yes," John said.

Sherlock pulled a camera and a flashgun from his bag. John jerked his head toward Kenny in a gesture for Sherlock to get started.

"Can you...?" my brother prompted.

All the way here, I wasn't able to get anything out of Sherlock about what John was up to. I was certain the detective would have an inkling of what John suspected and why we needed to bring a camera. It had to be more than just for show.

Kenny leaned one arm on the mantlepiece and posed. Sherlock strode closer and started to snap some photographs.

"Not too close," Kenny said. "I'm raw from crying."

There was a sudden meow and I looked down to see a hairless cat had come up to Sherlock. It gazed up at him expectantly and meowed again.

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"Sekhmet," Kenny answered. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice," Sherlock said. "Was she Connie's?"

"Yes," Kenny replied.

John reached down toward the cat, but Kenny beat him to it, bending down and picking it up. Looking frustrated, John straightened up and glanced toward Sherlock.

"Little present from yours truly," Kenny went on.

"Sherlock?" John suddenly said. "Uh, light reading?"

"Oh, um..." Sherlock lifted a second flashgun that he had been holding in his other hand. He aimed it towards Kenny and fired it straight into his face. "Two point eight," he confirmed.

Kenny flinched and clamped his eyes shut against the light.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "What do you think you're playing at?!"

John instantly darted in and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. Sherlock continued to fire the flash gun, forcing Kenny to keep his eyes closed.

"Sorry," the detective said.

John lifted his fingers away and sniffed them while Sherlock went on firing the flashgun.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two," Kenny complained. "What's going on?"

"Actually, I think we've _got_ what we came for," John suddenly said. "Excuse us."

"What?" Kenny said, clearly startled.

"Maxine, Sherlock," John beckoned.

"What?" Sherlock and I said in unison.

John snatched the case from the sofa and headed for the door. "We've got deadlines."

Sherlock and I exchanged a look before following after him.

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny protested.

Ignoring him, the three of us hurried out of the home at a light trot. Once heading down the drive and towards the main road, John chuckled delightedly.

"Yes!" he breathed. "Ooh, yes!"

Sherlock smiled toward him. "You think it was the cat," he said. "It wasn't the cat."

"The cat?" I echoed. "How could it be the cat?"

"What?" John looked between the two of us. "No, yes. Yeah, it _is._ It _must_ be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

Sherlock was still grinning. "Lovely idea."

"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat," John insisted. "It's a new pet—bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have—"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother," Sherlock interjected.

"How d'you mean?" I asked. "Was it someone else?"

"That's the question isn't it?" Sherlock said.

"He murdered his sister for her money," John said.

"Did he?" Sherlock glanced toward him.

"Didn't he?" John replied, frowning.

"No. It was revenge," Sherlock told him.

"Revenge?" John repeated disbelievingly. "Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed by a certain lifestyle so..."

John halted. "No, wait, wait. Wait a second."

Sherlock and I paused to look at him.

"What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John pressed.

"Raoul keeps a very clean house," Sherlock said. "You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it."

John pulled up his jacket to take a whiff as Sherlock led us toward the main road.

"Raoul's internet records do, though," the detective went on. "Hope we can get a cab from here."

As he walked off, John sighed with exasperation and a touch of disappointment. I glanced at him warily.

"It was a good thought," I assured him.

"Not good enough," John grumbled. "I really thought I had something there."

"More than I would have ever thought up," I said. "The medical side of things doesn't really click with me. I didn't even know you could get tetanus from cat claws."

John shook his head. Sherlock was a few meters in front of us now and my brother glanced over at me with a small frown.

"He's been acting odd, hasn't he?" he said softly, jerking his head at the detective's back.

"Odd?" I repeated. "Odd how?"

John shrugged. "Like when you offered to come with to see Mycroft with me, or-or how he reacted when I told you Mycroft said hello."

"It was a bit strange," I admitted. "But we both know that Sherlock doesn't get along with his brother."

"Sure, but this seems like something different," John murmured. "Mycroft—he told me to pass on his message to you _in front_ of Sherlock."

I furrowed my brow. "Why would he do that?"

"Dunno," John replied, though his expression seemed a bit sheepish, like he wasn't divulging his honest thoughts. "Has-er... has anything happened between...?"

My brother trailed off as he met my eyes anxiously.

"Between what?" I asked, starting to frown.

"N-nothing," John stammered, suddenly waving me off. "I... it's nothing. It must be something else."

Before I could pester my brother for more information, Sherlock called to us over his shoulders.

"What are you two going on about back there? You two _do_ realize we're on a time limit, right?"

"Sorry!" John called and the two of us hastened to catch up with the detective.

* * *

Evening had fallen by the time we finally went to the New Scotland Yard. John and I followed after Sherlock as he strode toward Lestrade brandishing a folder triumphantly.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," the detective declared. "Kenny Price's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince—it was botulinum toxin."

Sherlock put the folder on Lestrade's desk and as the Inspector reached for it, Sherlock leaned closer to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."

Lestrade took up the folder and began to head toward his office. He glanced quizzically over his shoulder at Sherlock. "So how'd he do it?"

"Botox injection," Sherlock said.

Lestrade paused and turned toward Sherlock. "Botox?"

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Sherlock explained. "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases." He pointed to the folder. "He's been bulk ordering Botox for months."

Amazed by Sherlock's deduction, I glanced toward John to see if he too was fathomed. However, my brother was staring at Sherlock with a mounting expression of anger.

"Bided his time," Sherlock went on, oblivious to John's glare, "then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

"You sure about this?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm sure," Sherlock insisted.

"All right—my office." Lestrade turned and walked toward his office. Sherlock started to follow him, but John put out an arm to stop him. His expression was still twisted with fury.

"Hey, Sherlock. How long?" he asked.

"What?" Sherlock blinked, seeming confused by both the question and the anger on John's face.

"How long have you known?" John demanded.

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake." Sherlock tried to go toward Lestrade's office but again John stopped him.

"No, but Sherl... The hostage... the _old woman._ She's been there all this time," John pressed.

Sherlock leaned down into my brother's face, staring at him with a heavy amount of intensity. "I _knew_ I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you _see?_ We're one up on him!"

With that, the detective headed into Lestrade's office. John pursed his lips in frustration as he stared after him. I worried my fingers in the fabric of my scarf as I tried to discern what had upset him so much. Sherlock had been clever on this one. Why waste the time the bomber gave us? Sherlock didn't just have to solve each case that was thrown at him in this strange game, but he had to try and solve the overall case of the bomber as well. He needed additional time to piece everything together.

"John..." I began.

John shook his head. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?" I tilted my head.

John sighed and turned toward me. His dark blue eyes were still glittering in anger. "That he's right. That we need to solve the _real_ case—right? The bomber. So-so who _cares_ if some old woman is out there terrified out of her mind that she could be blown to bits at any moment? Who cares if she's being forced to put her life in the hands of a complete stranger and has no idea why?"

"But Sherlock is going to save her..." I murmured.

John let out a humorless and bitter laugh. "Come _on_ Maxine, I've taught you better than this!" He glared at me so harshly I feared I might catch flame. "Think about how she must feel! We could have gotten her out of this mess sooner but Sherlock decided to just... leave her there while he went off and..."

"And started putting things together for us to catch the bomber," I finished for him when he trailed off. "If we don't stop him, more innocent people will be put into these exact same situations."

"For the greater good, then?" John asked tightly. "That's all this is? He could at least show _some_ feeling toward this poor woman. Both of you could."

"Thing is: we can't, John," I said softly.

John blinked. "What?"

"C'mon," I said instead of clarifying. "Once Sherlock tells the bomber he's solved it, we can get that old woman out of there."

I went after Sherlock into Lestrade's office. John took a moment to follow me and I could tell by the way he walked he was upset; his footfalls were heavy and deliberate.

Inside the office, Sherlock has a laptop open and was typing a message into his website. I went to the detective's shoulder and peered at the screen.

 _Raoul de Santos, the houseboy, botox._

Sherlock hit the send button and we only had to wait about five seconds before the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock grabbed it and started to bring it to his ear, but after a sharp look from me, he put it on speaker.

"Hello?" he said.

The old woman replied in an anguished voice. " _Help_ me."

"Tell us where you are. Address," Sherlock replied in a clear voice.

"He was so... His voice..." the old woman said.

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock cut in urgently. "Tell me nothing about him. _Nothing._ "

My heart leapt into my throat. If the old woman gave us any information, then surely she would be—

"He sounded so..." the old woman murmured shakily. "...soft."

There was a strange, sudden bursting sound and the line went dead.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, his eyes going wide.

Everyone in the room was quiet for a moment. Sherlock stared blankly ahead and lowered the phone. He bit his lip as Lestrade let out a tight breath. John's expression was slowly falling in devastation.

We all knew that the old woman was dead.

* * *

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main."

Sherlock, John, and I were in the living room watching the TV with grim expressions. The screen displayed a high-rise block of flats and the headline at the bottom read: _12 dead in gas explosion._ Of course, we knew better. The camera focused in on the corner of the building which had been torn open and exposed.

"Old block of flats," John said, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. The two of them were in their armchairs while I sat on the coffee table cross-legged. " _He_ certainly gets about."

"Well, obviously I lost that round," Sherlock murmured. "Although technically I did solve the case."

He snatched the remote control and muted the telly's volume before staring thoughtfully into the distance. The windows still had yet to be repaired and the noise of the traffic outside came flooding into the living room unhindered.

"He killed the old woman because she started to describe him," Sherlock said. He raised a finger. "Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What d'you mean?" John asked.

"Well, usually, he must stay above it all," Sherlock explained. "He organizes these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

"His voice," I said. "The other times he used the pagers, but the woman was blind. It was the first contact any of them had with him directly."

"Wait," John interjected. "What... like the Connie Prince murder—he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock said, his eyes filled with sudden admiration.

John stared at Sherlock in disbelieve for a moment before looking back at the TV, which had already moved to a new story.

"Huh," John grunted, jerking a finger toward the screen.

Sherlock and I looked over to see Raoul de Santos being bundled out of Kenny's house by police officers. The press were shoving each other as they struggled to get closer to Raoul and take photographs while interviewers shouted questions. The headline on the screen read: _Connie Prince: man arrested._ Raoul was shoved unceremoniously into the pack of a police car.

"Taking his time this time," Sherlock said, glaring at the pink phone on the coffee table.

"Well, it gives us more time to work, doesn't it?" I said.

Sherlock gave an amending nod, but he still looked a touch annoyed.

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John prompted.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John suggested.

"The thought had occurred," Sherlock said.

"So why's he doing this, then—playing this game with you?" John asked. "D'you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly. "I think he wants to be distracted."

John laughed humorlessly before getting out of his chair and heading toward the kitchen. "I hope you'll be happy together."

Sherlock and I both frowned toward him.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock said.

John whirled around and his face was consumed in fury. He gripped the back of his chair and leaned forward.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock—actual _human_ lives... Just-just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John demanded.

I pursed my lips. We had just had this argument back at the police station, however now that twelve people were dead because of the bomber, I guessed John's anger had reignited.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock replied irritably.

"Nope," John said.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock held my brother's gaze unyieldingly.

"And you find that easy, do you?" John snapped.

"Yes, very," Sherlock said. "Is that news to you?"

"No." John smiled bitterly. "No."

They stared at one another for a moment. I glanced warily between them, wondering what I should do or say, or if I should do anything at all. John was my brother and I cared for him, but Sherlock had done everything he could to save that old woman. It wasn't his fault of what happened.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said at last.

John was still smiling angrily and pointed at the detective. "That's good—that's a good deduction, yeah," he said sarcastically.

" _Don't_ make people into heroes, John," Sherlock said tightly. "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John shook his head disbelievingly before looking at me. I swallowed. _Oh, here it goes._

"You agree with him, don't you?" he said tightly, gesturing to Sherlock.

"It's not that simple, John," I said.

John's expression began to grow more angry.

"Listen to me for a second before you go off again," I said, getting to my feet. "You knew—we _both_ knew—what kind of person Sherlock was from the first case we worked together. The Study in Pink, d'you remember?"

"Of course I remember," John grumbled.

"All right." I crossed my arms. "He described himself to Anderson that day as a high-functioning sociopath. It means that empathy is lost on him. The ability that you have, John—the ability to look at someone, see their situation and imagine almost perfectly what it emotionally feels like to be in their shoes is a concept that he isn't capable of! And it's cruel to expect him to change because it would make you feel better about it. _Especially_ when it's a change that he can't possibly even accomplish."

John blinked a few times, clearly taken aback by the passion in my voice. "Maddie..."

I held up my finger to make him stop. "Sherlock has saved two people that this bomber has targeted so far. He would have saved that old woman too. What happened was completely out of his control and in no way his fault."

John adverted my gaze. I dropped my arms to my sides and exhaled sharply through my nose. A glance toward Sherlock revealed that he was staring at me in awe. Apparently he hadn't expected me to stand up for him against my brother of all people.

Before more could be said, the pink phone gave a message alert.

"Excellent!" Sherlock, gleeful at the distraction, snatched up the mobile and activated it. He looked at the screen for a moment. "View of the Thames. South Bank—somewhere between Southward Bridge and Waterloo." The detective reached into his jacket for his own phone. "John, you and Max check the papers; I'll look online."

John didn't respond. His head was lowered and his hands were still braced on the back of the chair.

"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help," Sherlock guessed, looking up at him.

John lifted his head and shrugged wordlessly. He gave a small, uncomfortable glance in my direction.

"Not much cop, this caring lark." Sherlock loudly clicked the 'k' on the last work before going to his phone and typing away, presumably on a search engine.

I gave one last look at my brother before walking across the room toward the sofa. John sniffed awkwardly before following after me. The two of us gathered up the papers from the coffee table before sitting side by side on the couch. We exchanged a glance before thumbing through the pages.

After a moment of silent reading, John spoke.

"Archway suicide," he said, reading from the paper in his hands.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock snapped.

John cast him a sharp look with the detective ignored.

I went through my own papers but my eyes ran blankly over the words. My mind was still reeling with how I'd stood up for Sherlock just a moment ago. Normally, I ran away from confrontations of the verbal nature; of anything to do with emotion and drama— _especially_ with my brother. Yet something had risen up inside me in that moment that couldn't be staunched.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington," John read.

Sherlock didn't respond, so I took it that what John found couldn't be relevant. I forced myself to focus on my own paper and realized what was on the page I'd been holding for nearly a minute.

"John..." I murmured, gesturing to it.

John looked over at the article and his eyes lit up. "Ah. Man found on the train line—Andrew West."

It was the same man that Mycroft wanted us to investigate. I looked up toward Sherlock, certain he'd be intrigued, but instead I saw the detective glaring at his mobile.

"Nothing!" he exclaimed in exasperation before hitting a few buttons and putting the phone to his ear. After a moment he said, "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and the Southwark Bridge?"

* * *

The oddity found by Lestrade and his men wasn't Andrew West; in fact, no one had any clue who the dead man found on the bank was.

The tide had receded to reveal him: a large man wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and black socks but no shoes. He looked waterlogged, which was to be expected, but I doubted that he'd merely drowned. If this was a case the bomber sent us, it was clearly something more intricate than that.

When we arrived, Lestrade didn't bother greeting us. All he asked was, "D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?"

Sherlock, who was just finishing pulling on a pair of latex gloves, replied, " _Must_ be. Odd, though." He held up the pink phone. "He hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asked grimly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

He stepped back and took a long look at the body. The corpse was laid on its back atop a plastic sheet. John and I stood awkwardly side by side. We hadn't really talked to one another since my outburst back at the flat. I could tell that John wanted to say something to me, but he either felt this wasn't the time or he didn't know how to say it.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade prompted Sherlock.

"Seven," the detective replied, "...so far."

"Seven?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Sherlock walked closer to the body and squatted down to examine the man's face with his magnifier. He then looked at the ripped pocket on the shirt before moving toward the watch on the man's wrist. I saw him mess with the buttons for a moment then worked his way down to the feet. The detective carefully pulled off one of the socks and examined the sole of the man's foot with the magnifier. After that, Sherlock stood and closed the magnifier before gesturing to John with a jerk of his head for my brother to examine the corpse.

John, ever the lawful one, looked to Lestrade for permission first. The Inspector held out his arms in a motion that said, _Be my guest._ John stepped forward and squatted down beside the body. He reached out and took hold of the man's wrist while Sherlock walked a few paces back and got out his phone.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours—maybe a bit longer," John concluded. He looked toward Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not," Lestrade replied. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Yes, I'd agree," John said. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here." He gestured toward the man's hairline.

I frowned and stepped forward to crouch at my brother's side, not bothering to ask Lestrade for permission. I stared at the bruises which were round and red like grapes.

"What could have caused these?" I wondered out loud.

"Fingertips."

I blinked and looked back to see Sherlock was staring at his phone.

"Fingertips?" I echoed.

Sherlock nodded, not bothering with giving more information. He typed away on his phone.

"In his late thirties, I'd say," John went on. "Not in the best condition."

My brother and I straightened up as Sherlock continued on his phone. I guessed he was on the internet again.

"He's been in the river a long while," Sherlock said. "The water's destroyed most of the data." He quirked a grin. "But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?" Lestrade said, baffled.

"We need to identify the corpse," Sherlock said, ignoring him. "Find out about his friends and associates."

"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait," Lestrade said. "What painting? What are you-what ware you on about?"

"It's all over the place," Sherlock said. "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."

"Okay." Lestrade still looked confused. "So what has _that_ got to do with the stiff?"

Sherlock grinned. " _Everything._ Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" Lestrade echoed.

"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John said. "What are you saying?"

"It's a Jewish folk story," I corrected. "A gigantic man made of clay that would defend homes."

Sherlock nodded. "It's also the name of an assassin—real name Oskar Dzunda—one of the deadliest assassins in the world." He pointed down to the body. " _That_ is his trademark style."

I stared down at the man's face and the strange grape-shaped bruises. "Fingertips, you said. And given the name, I'd say that this assassin is a big bloke. So... so he suffocated this man by just... just grabbing his face and pushing down?" I shook my head. "His hand alone must be like a dinner plate. And his strength..."

"There's a reason he's so lethal," Sherlock said.

"So this is a hit?" Lestrade said.

"Definitely," Sherlock replied. "The Golem—like Max said—squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this gotta do with that painting?" Lestrade asked. "I don't see..."

"You do _see—_ you just don't _observe,_ " Sherlock corrected in exasperation.

"All right, all right, girls, calm down." John gestured at the two of them by moving his hands downward in a calming motion. "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?"

Sherlock took a small moment before pointing at the body.

"What do we know about this corpse?" he said. "Max, can you tell me?"

I blinked, startled that he'd put me on the spot like this, but looked down at the body and frowned.

"Well, there isn't much left, is there?" I said. "Not even his shoes. He's just got the shirt and trousers. Oh." I spotted the man's wrist. "And a watch. Um, the outfit's rather formal, but they look a bit big on him. Ah, there's a hook there too—on his belt. For a walkie-talkie, maybe?"

Sherlock smiled at me. "Yes. Those clothes are also cheaply made; the pants are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt. Dressed for work, then. What _kind_ of work? That hook give a clue."

"Tube driver?" John guessed.

Sherlock shot him a look that blatantly said: _Idiot._

"Security guard?" John tried again.

"More likely," Sherlock replied. "That'll be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Well, he's a tad flabby," I pointed out. "But Sherlock was looking at his feet. I'm guessing he's thinking security guard because he found the feet to be pretty well done in. That means the man was walking a lot, but the flab says he was sitting a lot too."

"Yes, Max," Sherlock agreed. "The watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular?" Lestrade asked. "Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died."

"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched," Sherlock said. "He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution."

The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scrunched-up ball of paper.

"Found this in his pocket," Sherlock said. "Sodden by the river but still recognizably..."

John peered at the ball of paper. "Tickets?"

"Ticket _stubs,_ " Sherlock corrected. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check—the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing." He pointed down at the body. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it—something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

"Fantastic," John said admiringly. Seemed all his previous ire toward the detective was washed away with Sherlock's incredible ability to deduce such a thing.

Sherlock shrugged; apparently _he_ was still peeved about their earlier row. "Meretricious."

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade exclaimed.

John tossed the Inspector a look that said: _Seriously?_ and Lestrade grinned sheepishly. My brother then looked back at the body on the ground.

"Poor sod," he said.

Again, I wondered what it felt like being able to so vividly imagine other people's emotions.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade said.

"Pointless," Sherlock said. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock grinned. "Me."

With that, the detective turned and strode away. John and I exchanged a slightly tired look before following after our friend.

* * *

The three of us clamored into the back of a cab that Sherlock had hailed on the main road. Nothing had been said about John and Sherlock's previous argument or how I stood up for the former and I was planning on keeping it that way. It was nice to focus on a case and put all of that in the back of my mind where I could hopefully just forget about it.

"Why hasn't he phoned?" Sherlock asked on my left. "He's broken his pattern. Why?"

The detective was glaring at the pink phone in frustration. He clearly didn't appreciate an oddity that he didn't know the origin of. It reminded me of when he noticed that I had a strange past in Japan and couldn't let it go until he had the answers. Then, Sherlock's expression changed as if a thought had stuck him.

"Waterloo Bridge," he told the cabbie.

"Where now? The Gallery?" John asked from my right, leaning forward to look past me at Sherlock.

"In a bit," Sherlock said as the cab pulled onto the road.

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it?" John said, flicking his eyes to me.

"Yeah," I confirmed.

John frowned. "Why have they got a hold of an Old Master?"

"Dunno," Sherlock admitted. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data."

He pulled out a notebook from his pocket and began to write something on a page before tearing it out and folding a bank note inside it. I didn't manage to see what he'd written and gave him a curious look which he waved off. He put the paper into his pocker, then a few second later, called out to the cabbie.

"Stop!"

The cab pulled over to the side of the road and the driver glanced back at Sherlock a bit indignantly.

"You wait here. I won't be a moment," Sherlock said before hopping out of the cab and vaulting over the railings at the edge of the pavement with ease.

John and I exchanged one look before following after him; seems Watson blood was curious.

"Sherlock..." John said in confusion.

Our flatmate merely waled off down the sidewalk. I shrugged at my brother as he shook his head in exasperation and the two of us followed him. John scrambled over the railing as I hopped over them with the same ease as Sherlock. The detective led us to a set of steps beneath Waterloo Bridge where a young woman was sitting on a bench. There was a large bag beside her with a handwritten cardboard sign poking out of the top. The only words that could be made out on it were: _HUNGRY AND_. I guessed the next word was most likely _HOMELESS._

"Change?" the girl said. "Any change?"

"What for?" Sherlock asked her.

"Cup of tea, of course," she replied earnestly.

Sherlock pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "Here you go—fifty."

The girl smiled. "Thanks."

Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked back toward the cab again. John and I both blinked at him in bewilderment before hurrying after him.

"What are you doing?" John asked, gesturing back to the girl.

"Investing," Sherlock replied.

Looking back, I saw the girl was unfolding the note and reading it. Part of me was tempted to go back and ask her what it said, but I knew Sherlock would reveal everything eventually.

"Now we go to the Gallery. Have either of you got any cash?" the detective asked.

"Yeah," John said as we jumped the railing and climbed back into the cab.

When we got to Hickman's Gallery, Sherlock stepped out of the cab first. When John and I tried to follow, he held out a hand to us.

"No. I need you two to find out all you can about the gallery attendant," he said. "Lestrade will give you the address."

"What?" I blinked at him. "But—Sherlock, you _do_ realize I have an art degree. A _Master's_ degree."

"Yes, but I need to get close to the painting, which isn't open to the public yet," Sherlock said. "Won't be as easy with two of us. Besides, do you really think you'd be able to tell it's a fake just from a glance?"

"Alex Woodbridge figured it out, didn't he?" I said.

"He did," Sherlock confirmed. "Which is why I need you to go to his house and figure out how."

With that, Sherlock shut the door and strode toward the gallery.

"I'll just... text Lestrade," John muttered awkwardly.

I scooted over to the seat Sherlock had vacated so John and I weren't right up against one another. My brother typed away on his phone and it didn't take long for Lestrade to get back to him. John read off the address to the cabbie, and then we were off.

As the cab drove, John cast me an anxious look.

"What?" I said softly.

Left alone with John meant that he was probably going to talk about what had happened earlier; about me defending Sherlock so much.

"You've come with me on errands for cases before," John pointed out. "Why were you so keen on staying with Sherlock this time?"

I pursed my lips and looked out the window. John let out a long sigh.

"You don't have to answer, I think I know," he said. "You don't like arguments or... confrontation of the emotional sort. 'course no-one could've tell with how you jumped down my throat earlier."

I started digging into my pocket for my phone but John grabbed my arm.

"Stop, Maddie," he said. "I get it."

I glanced at him. "Get it?" I repeated.

John nodded. "It really makes sense now, with how well you clicked with him. You're like him, right? That whole high-functioning sociopath thing."

Adverting my gaze, I clenched my fists in my yellow scarf. I didn't know why hearing John say it made knots tighten in my gut. I had come to terms with what I was and Sherlock had helped me see that it wasn't anything to be ashamed about, but I just didn't want things to change between me and my brother.

"It-it's fine," John assured me, as if sensing my growing anxiety. "Really. Maxine, it doesn't mean that there's... anything _wrong_ with you—it doesn't _change_ anything."

"It doesn't?" I looked at him again, my hands trembling somewhat. "John, all my life you've been teaching me how to act and be around people; how to be _civil._ What to say, what not to say, how to be mindful of people's feelings. You were teaching me to be _normal,_ John, when I'm not."

John let out a long exhale and ran his thumb over his fingers. He looked out the window for a few moments, as if searching for inspiration. Finally, he turned and his gaze found mine again.

"People are cruel, Maxine," John said softly. "When I saw how you were, growing up, I didn't want other kids to target you in school or... I just wanted what was best for you."

"I know," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate it—it's probably helped loads. I just... I know how hard you tried to make me normal and I didn't want to tell you that it was pointless. That... I don't know what I'm trying to say, John."

"It's all right," John said, gripping my arm again. "You're still my sister, Maddie. Nothing is going to change that."

"Don't go getting sappy when we're on our way to interview some mourners." I shoved him playfully but gave him an appreciative smile.

John smiled back.


	24. The Great Game, Part 6

_Maxine_

Alex Woodbridge's home was a quaint abode. A woman named Julie greeted us and luckily she'd already been informed of Alex's death. I always hated being the one to tell people of someone's passing. There was often a lot of tears and blubbering that I didn't know what to do with. Julie led us to Alex's room which was in the attic. It was messy with clothes scattered about and papers strewn on a nearby desk. The window in the canted ceiling looked up into the sky and standing below it was a large object covered with a sheet.

"We'd been sharing about a year," Julie said. "Just sharing."

"Mmm," John responded.

Julie paused and gestured around the room as if to present it to us. She seemed like she'd been crying recently—puffy eyes and blotched skin. John and I observed the room at that point, focusing on what we'd come here to do.

"May I?" John asked, pointing at the sheet-covered object.

"Yeah," Julie said.

John strode over to it and at first attempted to prudently take to sheet off the top to peer beneath but it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

"Sorry," he said before looking at the revealed object.

It was a telescope on a tripod, a rather fancy one at that. I frowned and went to my brother's side to look at it.

"Stargazer, was he?" John asked.

"God, yeah," Julie said. "Mad bout it. It's all he ever did in his spare time." She glanced away, her expression becoming grieved. "He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, er, never much of a one for hovering." She laughed nervously as she glanced around the messy room.

"What about art?" I asked, turning toward her. "Was he interested in that? Did he study it or...?"

Julie shook her head. "It was just a job, you know?"

"Hmm." John bent down and peered at the items scattered on the bedside table. "Has anyone else been round asking about Alex?"

"No," Julie said. "We had a break-in, though."

John straightened up. "Hmm? When?"

"Last night," Julie replied. "There was nothing taken. Oh—there _was_ a message left for Alex on the landline."

"From who?" I queried.

"Well, I can play it for you if you like," Julie said. "I'll get the phone."

"Please," John said.

Julie left the room leaving my brother and I to examine it with frowns on our faces.

"If he wasn't into art, how'd he figure out that painting was a fake?" John asked.

I shook my head. "I'd have to see the painting itself to get a better idea, but..." My eyes went to the telescope.

Before I could go on, Julie came back into the room with the phone. She put it on speaker and played the message.

"Oh, should I speak now?" a woman's voice said. "Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when..."

The message abruptly ended.

"Professor Cairns?" John asked.

"No, no idea, sorry," Julie said.

"Mm. Can I try and ring back?" John queried.

"Well, no good," Julie said apologetically. "I mean, I've had other calls since—sympathy ones, you know."

John nodded and Julie turned to step out of the room, presumably to give us more time to look around. Yet just as she stepped out of the door, our mobiles trilled text alerts at the same time. We exchanged a glance before pulling the phones out.

It was a text from Mycroft which read: _RE: BRUCE-PARINGTON PLANS. Have you spoken to West's fiancee yet? Mycroft Holmes._

I looked over to see my brother grimacing as he put his phone away.

"Mycroft?" I guessed.

John nodded. Giving me a wary glance, he said, "Hey, listen, would you be willing to...?"

Now it was my turn to grimace. "You really want to work on this case, don't you?"

"Mycroft said it was important," John pressed.

"Yes, but Sherlock seems to be very irritated whenever we do anything with his brother," I pointed out. "Remember how cross he got about the 'hello' thing? Which I've been meaning to ask you..."

"Just help me out with talking to the fiancee," John interjected before I could finish my sentence. "You notice things, a lot like Sherlock sometimes."

"I'm nowhere near his level," I said.

"Well, all the same, I think it'll help. Besides, it'll be fast to just pop by on the way back to the flat," John said.

I sighed and nodded. "All right, fine. But if Sherlock finds out and gets peeved, you get to do the explaining."

* * *

 _Sherlock_

Much to my annoyance, the Vermeer painting looked perfectly ordinary to me. It displayed some old buildings sitting near a lake. The water reflected them and the night sky above like a mirror. When I looked between the top half of the painting and the reflection, I didn't see a single difference between the two—not a single mistake.

I knew the basics when it came to art. I'd found it important to some of the cases I'd worked in the past to have slightly above average knowledge on the subject. However, it wasn't something I was an expert on or had gone through great efforts to study. I wasn't Maxine.

My lips pressed into a tight line at the thought of her. It would have been possible to have her come with me to look at the painting firsthand. Snagging a security guard's coat and hat wasn't difficult; surely I could have found another set for her as well. Admittedly, she would probably be able to glean more from the painting than I could.

But if I'd allowed her to come with, we'd be alone in each other's company again.

When Maxine had stood up for me against her brother earlier that day, I honestly didn't know what to think or how to respond. It wasn't like when she was sour toward Sebastian for being a prick—it was _John_ she had yelled at. Well, _scolded_ was a better word. I didn't think I'd ever heard Maxine yell at anyone.

After she did that, something strange had bubbled up in my gut. At first it was difficult to place, but after a few minutes I knew what it was: I was pleased. I had been _flattered_ that she would do such a thing on my behalf, especially considering how much Maxine hated verbal conflict. I'd been... _happy_ that she thought enough about me to do that.

It wasn't something I was used to—being so invested in what someone else thought of me. Usually I didn't give other people's opinion's a second thought. Yet with the Watsons, I was finding myself growing... attached to them. However, there was a distinct difference between how my mind reacted between John and Maxine. With John, things were a bit easier—still strange, but easier. If he got angry with me, I tended to get angry back, though not to the degree that I did with people I disliked such as Anderson and Donovan.

But with Maxine...

She'd only grown cross with me once, and it was just before the bomb had gone off on Baker Street. That moment had thrown some clarity at me. She hadn't been able to get all of her thoughts out before the explosion, but I still recalled her heated glare and her words.

 _"You frustrated me."_

Maxine didn't stick around for arguments—not ever. Yet she had with me.

If I had let her come with me to the museum, she would probably ask why I'd been acting so strange the past few days. She might even ask why I'd gotten so angry about Mycroft saying _hello_ to her. I had a case to solve—perhaps the biggest case of my life—and I couldn't afford to be so distracted. I couldn't afford to face whatever was growing inside of me: something planted there by Maxine Watson.

Refocusing on the painting, I once again ran my eyes along its surface and still found nothing strange. Before I could sigh in frustration, I heard footsteps walking toward me from behind. I didn't bother turning to greet whoever it was—a woman based on the sounds of her steps. She was wearing high heels.

"Don't you have something to do?" a female voice asked in an Eastern European accent.

"Just admiring the view," I replied calmly, glad for the distraction from Maxine.

"Yes. Lovely," the woman's voice said curtly. "Now get back to work. We open tonight."

I finally glanced over my shoulder at the woman. She wore an elegant black dress that left a wide birth around her neck and collarbone. Resting at the base of her neck was a silver pendant of some kind; large and gaudy. Her dark hair was wavy in all the right places, suggesting a barber had styled it recently. Her makeup was just as meticulous, shaded lips and lined eyes.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked her.

The woman perked a brow. "What?"

"That the painting's a fake," I said.

The woman's expression twisted in sudden anger. "What?" she repeated, this time with venom in her tone.

"It's a fake," I replied calmly. "It _has_ to be. It's the only possible explanation."

I turned round and strode closer to her so I could peer at the I.D. badge on her chest.

"You're in charge, aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?" I prompted when I saw her name.

"Who _are_ you?" Miss Wenceslas demanded.

I stepped closer, leaning down into her face and staring intently into her eyes. "Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake, so somebody sent the Golem to take care of him," I said softly. "Was it you?"

"Golem?" Miss Wenceslas echoed, seemingly bewildered. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Or are you working for someone else?" I went on. "Did you fake it _for_ them?"

"It's not a fake," Miss Wenceslas insisted.

"It _is_ a fake," I countered. "Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. There _has_ to be."

"What the hell are you on about?" Miss Wenceslas was growing redder in the face by the minute. "You know, I could have you sacked on the spot."

"Not a problem," I said with a shrug.

"No?" Miss Wenceslas's eyes gleamed as if she was getting prepared to show me she wasn't bluffing.

"No," I told her. "I don't work here, you see. Just popped in to give you a bit of friendly advice."

"How did you get in?" Miss Wenceslas suddenly looked more worried than angry. Her eyes darted between the two of mine and she took a small step back.

"Please," I scoffed.

"I want to know," Miss Wenceslas pressed.

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," I said.

With that, I turned around and began to take off my borrowed cap.

"Who _are_ you?" Miss Wenceslas demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes," I replied, dropping the cap onto the top of one of the railing posts in the room.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Miss Wenceslas spat.

I grinned a little. "You _should_ be."

I then took off the jacket and let it fall to the floor. When I reached the doors, I shoved it open with a bit more flamboyancy than was needed and skipped out of the room.

"Have a nice day!" I called over my shoulder, hoping that that left Miss Wenceslas with a scowl.

* * *

 _John_

I sat in Andrew West's flat on a sofa next to his fiancee, Lucy. The living room was quaint and decorated with the air of minimalism; it was far more my taste than Kenny Prince's home. Maxine stood near one of the windows with a mug of tea in her hands. She was busy staring into it so as to avoid looking at Lucy. Any time someone was overly emotional around Maxine, she tended to shy away from them and let me do the talking if I was available.

"He wouldn't," Lucy was saying. "He just wouldn't."

"Well, stranger things have happened," I said as gently as I could.

"Westie wasn't a traitor," Lucy insisted. "It's a horrible thing to say!"

"I'm sorry, but you must understand that's..." I began, unsure of how to phrase it.

"That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?" Lucy demanded.

I nodded stiffly. "He was a young man, about to get married. He had debts..."

" _Everyone's_ got debts; and Westie wouldn't wanna clear them by selling out his country." Lucy's hands balled into fists and she glared at her knees.

I glanced over at Maxine, wondering if she could help defuse the situation at all. I _had_ taught her well. Sometimes, she was shockingly wise with calming people down, but it really depended on the situation. Recalling the night that Sarah had nearly been killed by the Black Lotus, I knew that consoling someone who had survived a life-threatening situation wasn't one of them, but perhaps she could understand the pain of a grieving individual.

However, my sister continued to stare into her tea with her lips pursed. I knew that look: she was trying not to say something that might come off as rude. Clearing my throat awkwardly, I set my attention back on Lucy.

"Can you, um, can you tell me exactly what happened that night?" I asked her softly.

"We were having a night in, just watching a DVD." Lucy smiled a bit at the memory. "He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet." Tears began to form in her eyes and her voice cracked when she spoke again. "Out of the blue, he said he just had to go see someone."

"And you've no idea who?" I said.

Lucy shook her head and began to cry. As she held her head in her hands and sobbed, I awkwardly patted her back in condolence. Maxine's head snapped up when the crying started and now she was staring at Lucy like she was some kind of wild animal that might attack at any second.

"I'm sorry..." Lucy finally managed to say after a few moments. Mercifully, her back was to Maxine and she didn't see my sister's expression of terror.

"It's all right," I assured. "You-you've every right to cry. You lost someone you loved."

Lucy started sobbing again and I grimaced. I thought that had been the right thing to say in order to calm her, but apparently it just opened the floodgates more. I gave Maxine an apologetic look over Lucy's shaking shoulders. My sister merely sipped her tea, but her entire body had gone rigid.

Then, there was the chime of a text alert from Maxine's pocket. It was enough to bring Lucy out of her stupor and she looked back toward my sister curiously.

"Er, sorry," Maxine muttered, fishing her mobile from her pocket. She looked at it then her eyes went to mine. "Sherlock's requesting us."

"Ah." I smiled tightly as if in regret, but in all honesty, even though the woman was hurting and it would do her good to have someone comforting her, I could tell Maxine was about to crack. "I'm sorry, Lucy, we best be off. If you, uh, if you think of anything else or hear anything or..." I fished out a card from my pocket and handed it to her. "Ring me, will you?"

"Yeah." Lucy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed. "Yeah, of course."

Maxine went over to her and pulled out a small packet of tissues that were in her pocket. She pulled a few free and offered them wordlessly to Lucy. The woman blinked in surprise; clearly she'd noticed how quiet and standoffish Maxine was and hadn't been expecting any kind gestures.

"Oh, thanks," she said, taking them and cleaning up her nose.

Maxine just nodded and took a step back to wait for me to get ready to leave. I gathered my jacket (Maxine had never taken hers off, nor her yellow scarf) and Lucy showed us out. When she opened the front door, a cycle courier was walking along the pavement toward the house. He was a handsome young man with dark hair. As he wheeled his pushbike toward us, his eyes locked on Lucy.

"Oh, hi, Luce," he said. "You okay, love?"

"Yeah," Lucy said.

"Who's this?" the man queried, looking between me and Maxine.

"John Watson. Hi," I introduced. "Er, this is my sister, Maxine."

Maxine gave the man a small nod.

"This is my brother, Joe," Lucy said. She turned toward the man. "John and Maxine are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe."

Joe looked me up and down before glancing at Maxine. "You two with the police?"

"Uh, sort of, yeah," I replied.

"Well, tell 'em to get off their arses, will you?" Joe snapped. "It's bloody ridiculous."

"I'll do my best," I said warily. It made sense that people would be grieving and grief often led to anger. All the same, though, the guy could show some gratitude.

Joe nodded at me and turned to put a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder for a moment before wheeling his bike inside the house. I cleared my throat and stepped a bit closer to Lucy.

"Well, er, thanks very much for your help; and again, I'm very, very sorry," I said.

I turned to leave, Maxine just behind me, but before we could get far, Lucy called after us.

"He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson," she said.

I looked back at her curiously. Maxine did so as well, though she was reluctant. I could tell by my sister's expression that she just wanted out.

"I knew Westie," Lucy said. "He was a good mad." Tears began to fall down her face again. "He was _my_ good man."

With that, she turned and hurried back indoors. Maxine, who had stiffened up at the sight of tears, immediately relaxed when the woman was out of sight. She shook her head and pursed her lips.

"I hate tears," she muttered.

"Let's try to make sure there aren't any more of those, then," I said.

Then, together, we walked down the street toward the main road to hail a cab. As we went, I cast my sister a glance.

"Did Sherlock really text you?" I asked. The detective usually texted both of us in our group text to summon us.

Maxine cleared her throat and avoided my gaze. "Y-yeah, 'course he did."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Might I see it?"

Maxine opened her mouth as if to argue, but when she saw the stern look on my face she sighed and took out her phone. Opening up her texts, she showed the screen to me.

There had indeed been a text from Sherlock. It read: _If you need an escape, just tell John that I summoned you two._

"How... how would he know you needed an 'escape?'" I asked in bewilderment.

"How does Sherlock Holmes know half the things he knows?" Maxine replied with a shrug. "Mm, more than half now that I think on it."

I sighed and shook my head. "We might as well head back anyway."

Reaching the main road, I lifted my hand to hail a cab. Maxine was typing away on her mobile, replying to Sherlock I expected. I couldn't help but feel a small twinge in my gut. I'd always known that there was something off about my younger sister, but I never would have gone so far as to call her a sociopath. However, it seemed that's what it was. Of course, she'd still have to be properly diagnosed by a psychiatrist but...

 _But_ that wasn't what was bugging me the most, I realized. Maxine had always been strange and distant; quiet and reserved. Yet ever since we moved in with Sherlock Holmes, a new light had sparked within her. Perhaps it was just being around someone who understood her so well, who had so much in common with her. Then I thought about Mycroft and he strange actions regarding my sister and Sherlock's reactions.

For a split second, I considered typing into my mobile's internet search engine: _Can sociopaths have romantic relationships?_ Then I shook my head. No, there was no way. Sherlock said he considered himself married to his work the first time we met him; granted that was when he thought _I_ was interested in him. And I'd never seen Maxine give _any_ interest in _anyone,_ not even all the handsome actors on the telly.

So no, surely nothing like _that_ could be going on.

Maxine's phone trilled with a text alert as a cab pulled over. I glanced at her to see her smiling at whatever Sherlock had replied with. I opened the door for her and she slid in first. For the brief moment my face was completely out of her view, I let a grimace consume it before getting in after her.

* * *

 _Maxine_

As the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street, I saw Sherlock coming out the front door. Impeccable timing, it seemed. Night had fallen and I tugged my yellow scarf tighter around my neck against the early Spring chill when John and I stepped out of the cab. Sherlock instantly approached us, his expression expectant.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art," John told him.

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

"He likes stars," I added with a small shrug.

Sherlock blinked at me in confusion, waiting for me to clarify.

John did it for me. "He was an amateur astronomer," he said.

Sherlock turned and started to walk towards the end of the street where a familiar homeless girl was begging for change. He pointed back toward the cab we'd just arrived in.

"Hold that cab," he ordered.

John, exasperated, turned and trotted back to the taxi to stop the driver from pulling away. I took a few steps after Sherlock, wondering what he'd had the girl do for him. When he approached her, instead of him passing her money, she gave him a small slip of paper. Sherlock smiled at it before turning and heading back toward us.

"Fortunately, I _haven't_ been idle," he said. He opened the cab door and slid inside. "Come on."

With a small sigh, I went in after him, once again doomed to be in the middle seat.

Once Sherlock gave the cabbie our destination, I elbowed him.

"What's on the paper, then?" I asked.

Sherlock took it from his pocket and showed it to me. On it were the words _VAUXHALL ARCHES_ written on it in hasty penmanship.

"And what's there?" I asked with a frown. Vauxhall wasn't known for anything particularly _good._ A lot of homeless would loiter there, using the bridge as a roof from the frequent London rain.

"Our next lead," Sherlock said.

"Oh, well, that's specific," John scoffed.

Sherlock smiled lightly. He really did love waiting to reveal his plans. Part of me wondered if he was giving us a chance to figure him out before he carried out his actions; a game of sorts—almost like the one the bomber was playing with him but far less deadly.

The cab dropped us off on the closest main road to the Arches. We walked down toward them at a swift pace, letting the light of the street lamps guide us. Sherlock buttoned up his coat against the chilly breeze as he glanced up at the sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

John and I followed his gaze. The sky was astonishingly clear that night and I could see a dense star field glistening overhead. I didn't quite understand how so many of them were clearly in sight when we were in central London.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," John noted.

I recalled the conversation a few days ago when I found out Sherlock didn't know the Earth revolved around the Sun. However, that isn't what first came to my mind when John said those words. Sherlock simply didn't seem the type to sit back and admire something of beauty or awe.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," the detective replied calmly.

I pursed my lips and gazes toward the glittering stars. Alex Woodbridge would stare up at the sky in that little attic bedroom of his, probably every night too. How did he get caught up in this scandal?

As we walked into the Arches, John looked over at Sherlock.

"Listen: Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat—a Professor Cairns?" he said.

"This way," Sherlock said, ignoring him as he strode toward a large throng of homeless people set up in tents and bedrolls at the base of the Arches.

"Nice—nice part of town," John said sarcastically. "Er, any time you wanna explain."

"Homeless network—really is indispensable," Sherlock replied.

John pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on as we left the majority of the city lights behind us. "Homeless network?" he echoed.

"My eyes and ears all over the city," Sherlock said.

"Oh, that's clever." John nodded. "So you scratch their backs and..."

"Yes, then I disinfect myself," Sherlock quipped.

I shook my head and couldn't fight the small smirk of amusement that came to my lips. It wasn't often I heard Sherlock joke, but when he did it was often quick and witty.

Sherlock pulled his own torch out and shined it around as we continued into the darkness of the Arches. His and John's beams picked out homeless people all around the place—most of them settling down for the night.

"So, they're your eyes and ears," I said to Sherlock, "What is it that they saw or heard?"

"You're a smart girl, Max," Sherlock said, "think it through. What would be wise for us to find next?"

"Well, ideally the..." I trailed off when I looked forward and saw John's beam of light catch a shockingly tall silhouette of a man as he began to stand up. I grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and pointed. "Golem!"

"Come on!" Sherlock said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me to the side of a wall.

John was just behind us, quickly taking his light away from the man to avoid attention. The man's shadow was still casted on the wall of the arch he was beneath—this guy had to be over seven feet tall.

"What's he doing sleeping rough?" John whispered as he huddled close to each other by the wall to stay hidden.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look," Sherlock explained as he peered around the corner. "He has to hide somewhere tongue won't wag—much."

John began to reach toward his hip, but then his eyes widened with horror. "Oh shi..." he began.

Sherlock swiftly produced my brother's pistol from his jacket pocket. "What?" he said casually.

"I wish I'd..." John went on then looked up to see Sherlock offering him the gun.

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said as John took it.

My heart began to accelerate in my chest. This man we were currently stalking was an assassin—one of the world's _deadliest_ assassins. Sherlock made certain John had his gun with him, so that meant this was going to get quite dangerous. I tried not to smile at the prospect of such a challenge.

Abruptly, the tall man broke into a run down another tunnel. The three of us immediately gave chase, sprinting towards where he was. Skidding around the corner, we arrived in the tunnel just in time to see the Golem climbing into a waiting car at the far end. Before we could even take another step, the vehicle sped off.

"No, no, no, _no!_ " Sherlock exclaimed, punching the air in frustration. "It'll take us _weeks_ to find him again."

"Or not," John said. "I have an idea where he might be going."

I lifted my head in sudden realization. "Professor Cairns," I breathed, recalling the message she left for Alex Woodbridge.

John nodded. "Like I said, someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be _that_ many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on."

* * *

The planetarium theatre was playing Gustav Holst's "Mars" and the audio spoke out over the sound system around us. Oddly, as we tiptoed in, the footage fast-forwarded and then continued playing. The light of the screen dimly illuminated the plush seats and aisles between them.

"Many are actually long-dead," the man's voice from the production said through the speakers, "exploded into supernovas. The Van Buren Supernova was an exploding star discovered by Urbain Le Verrier in 1846."

The door we entered was near the front of all the chairs and we had a decent view of the small room overlooking them. Inside was the mixing desk and standing behind it was a the shape of a woman who was currently being strangled by a tall, tall man.

" _Golem!_ " Sherlock bellowed as John took careful aim at the massive man with his pistol.

The Golem looked up and I heard a small grunt of surprise echo across the room. Then, with astonishing efficiency, he snapped the woman's—Professor Cairn, presumably—neck and her body collapsed onto the mixing table. She must have hit something, for the footage on the screen began to fast-forward again and it plunged the theatre into darkness. The Golem's shadow ducked down and out of sight.

"John!" Sherlock pressed.

"I can't see him," John said. "I'll go round. I'll go! Keep Maddie close!"

"Max, with me," Sherlock ordered.

Before I could object, he gripped my arm and pulled me to his side as my brother scampered off, gun at the ready.

"We should be back-to-back," I said to Sherlock. "He's big, easy to spot, but he has to be a renowned assassin for a reason."

The footage on the screen continued to spool, stop, and spool again, causing light to come and go in the room. Visibility was an issue and we couldn't afford for there to be any mishaps here. The Golem had snapped that woman's neck so easily... My heart was racing.

Sherlock nodded to me and we turned, pressing out backs against each other. Oddly, the sensation of his body so close was comforting. It took the edge off of the manic that was beginning to build within me at the prospect of such danger. I reached over to my hip and drew my dagger to hold at the ready.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock called loudly, goading him most likely, or trying to distract him for John.

The room fell into darkness again. Because the light kept coming back periodically, it was impossible for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. However, at the very last second, I saw a massive hand rushing toward my face. Giving a small squeak of surprise, I ducked down just in time to avoid it, however the Golem instead grabbed hold of Sherlock's hair. With a powerful yank, the assassin pulled Sherlock over me and we fell to the floor in a heap.

Forced to scramble for a moment, Sherlock and I detangled from one another but the Golem had vanished again. The room had only been lit when we fell and now it was pitch black once more. I gripped my blade tightly, eyes darting back and forth. Miyako had taught me how to deal with enemies bigger than me, but I didn't think she'd ever expect me to take on someone like the Golem.

I heard Sherlock give a sudden muffled yell. Whirling, I spotted the Golem had taken advantage of us no longer being back-to-back and snagged the detective. He had one hand clamped over Sherlock's mouth and nose while the other gripped his neck. Sherlock desperately grabbed at the hand and struggled to pull it free as he was slowly suffocated.

John raced over and stopped in front of them, pistol in both hands. I darted toward the Golem's side, dagger posed to stab into any vital spots I could find. It would be ideal to take the man in alive, but if it was the Golem's life versus Sherlock's? The answer was obvious to me.

"Let him go, or I _will_ kill you," John ordered. His voice was calm and he aimed the gun at the Golem's face with steady hands.

Sherlock, whimpering in his efforts, continued to try and claw at the man's hand to get it off his face. Something inside me was twisting and cracking at the sound of the detective in so much pain. When it didn't look like the Golem was going to be swayed by John's threat, I darted in and swiped the blade toward the man's arm, hoping to get him to release Sherlock.

The Golem swung Sherlock around to the left before I could make my mark. Forced to dart backward, I watched as the tall man lashed out a ludicrously long leg at John in a moment of darkness and managed to kick the pistol out of my brother's hands. Dropping Sherlock to the ground, the Golem surged forward to attack John.

A staggering amount of rage filled me when I saw the assassin grab my brother. I gripped the dagger tightly in my hand and leapt forward. The Golem was just twisting around to throw John across the room when I reached him. My brother was sent crashing into Sherlock, who was just getting to his feet. However, I managed to avoid him and lashed my blade out at the giant.

There was the ripping sound of cloth and flesh and a spray of blood spurted out in the air, illuminated in a brief moment of light from the screen. My dagger had sliced open a deep cut on the Golem's bicep. He howled in pain and whirled to face me. His face was elongated and slightly disproportional. His eyes leered down at me and in that moment I felt like a mere child due to the contrast in our sizes.

I expertly flipped the dagger in my hand so that the blade was closer to my pinky instead of my thumb. I held my other hand out with the palm toward the tall man in a defensive pose. My breath came even and strong and a small grin tugged the corner of my lips as I hopped foot to foot.

The Golem swung out a hand intent on grabbing my dagger arm. I jolted to the side to avoid him and darted in with my blade held high. However, before I could bury it into his shoulder, the Golem's other hand came out and grabbed my free arm. He yanked it so hard, I thought for a moment that my shoulder had disconnected. It pulled me to the side and my dagger cut uselessly through thin air. I cried out in pain as his hand clenched tightly around my forearm.

"Max!"

Sherlock and John had detangled themselves and were on their feet again. The detective took up a boxing stance, holding up clenched fists and his knees bending a bit. I knew that Sherlock was decent at hand-to-hand combat, but I had a feeling punching this guy would be like punching a brick wall. Nevertheless, Sherlock moved forward and shot out a fist intent for the Golem's face. The giant grabbed Sherlock's fist, but now he didn't have a free hand.

With a grunt of effort, I twisted around and stabbed my dagger down into the bicep of the arm holding me. The Golem roared as I ripped the blade free and yet more blood came forth. I'd never actually stabbed a living thing before. It was different than the wood I'd practice on with Miyako. It felt... pliable yet strangely resistant at the same time, and pulling the dagger out was a lot harder than pushing it in.

The Golem's grip loosened on me and I rolled away, my arm throbbing from where he'd had hold of me. Now with more maneuvering room, I flipped my dagger in my hand again so the blade was near my thumb and searched for an opening in order to free Sherlock. The detective had some specks of blood on the side of his face from when I stabbed the Golem. His hand was still captured and the Golem recovered from his new wound astonishingly fast. He ran a knee up and into Sherlock's gut, sending the detective to the ground. The Golem then crouched over him and grabbed his face in both hands, squeezing with deadly force.

Sherlock let out muffled cries of pain.

Before I could move, John leapt on the Golem's back, gripping the collar of the man's shirt while wailing a fist on the side of his head. The Golem gave a shout of annoyance and fury and released Sherlock to reach back and claw at my brother. I darted forward and hopped from side to side, trying to find an opening to strike without hurting John. Sherlock, gasping for his stolen breath, managed to get to his feet and came to my side.

The Golem began to spin. John, despite his best efforts, couldn't cling on due to the growing momentum and was sent to the floor. Seeing our opportunity, Sherlock and I ran forward to take on the Golem at the same time. We seemed to have a silent communication between us as Sherlock moved toward the right as I went left to flank the large man.

I hunkered down low, trying to use my small size to my advantage. Sure enough, when the Golem tried to reach for me, he didn't reach down far enough. Aiming for the giant's legs, I pushed myself onto my side and slid across the floor to cut into his calf. Yet just as I began to slide, the Golem hiked up one foot and slammed it down on my arm— _hard._

Screaming, I felt the dagger slide out of my hand as I heard something crack.

"Get _off_ her!" John bellowed.

My brother sprinted toward the Golem with fresh vigor, but before he could get close, the Golem twisted and snatched Sherlock who had been trying to attack him from the side. The tall man tossed Sherlock like he was a mere rag doll and sent him skimming across the floor to trip John.

Mercifully, the moment that he threw the detective, the Golem lifted his foot from my arm and began to run toward the exit. As Sherlock slid across the floor, he managed to snatch John's pistol from the floor as he passed it. The detective twisted around and took careful aim before firing two shots. I turned to see neither had made their mark; the Golem was already disappearing through the exit.

Sherlock slammed his hand on the floor in front of him angrily. John, who managed to avoid being tripped by the detective sliding toward him, ran to my side.

"Are you all right, Maddie?" he asked urgently.

"Mmm..." I grimaced in pain and looked toward my right forearm. It was already bruising. "He might have fractured something."

"What were you _thinking_ going at him like that?" John demanded, shaking his head. "He was twice your size! Literally!"

I gave my brother a weak smile. "Because it was fun."

John blinked at me in pure disbelief for a moment before letting out a long sigh and bowing his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"She dealt more damage than either of us," Sherlock noted as he got to his feet. He strode toward us, picking up my dagger on the way. He handed the gun to my brother and then offered the dagger to me.

"Er, should I let you keep it for a small bit?" I asked the detective as John helped me sit up. "It has his blood on it, after all."

Sherlock shrugged and looked around the room. "Plenty of samples here. We need to tell Lestrade." He glanced toward me. "Let him think I did the stabbing bit."

"Why?" I asked, wincing a bit as John examined my arm.

"I tend to get special treatment from the Scotland Yard, in case you didn't notice." Sherlock was getting out his phone and texting. "You two are starting to get there, but not quite enough. Could be that Lestrade will want to have you make statements and go through all the delightful hoops of the law in order to determine this was self defense and all that... It would just be a waste of time."

He finished texting and crouched down beside us. He looked over me carefully, as if inspecting for more wounds. His expression was surprisingly distraught.

"John, her arm?" Sherlock prompted the Doctor.

"She needs to go to a hospital," John said, frowning worriedly at my still swelling arm. "Could be more than a fracture."

"Go on, then," Sherlock said. "I'll stay here and wait for Lestrade." He straightened up but offered a hand down to me.

"Honestly, it's just a broken arm," I grunted as I allowed the boys to help me stand.

" _Just_ a... Maddie, you _are_ a wonder," John said with a disbelieving laugh.

"Could've been far worse," I said with a shrug. "Though this shouldn't have happened—I underestimated him."

"He was a _giant,_ " John pressed. "What were you expecting?"

"Him to be slower?" I shrugged.

Sherlock grunted in amusement. "Go get patched up, Max. Then go back to the flat, I'll meet you both there."

Nodding, John and I headed out of the building. As he made our way toward the main road, I finally started noticing the pain. It had been there before, of course, but now it seemed to be increasing as my adrenaline wore off.

"Maddie," John said. His voice was oddly soft as he walked close to me, ready to catch me if I should stagger or fall.

"Yeah?" I said, trying not to let the pain show in my face.

"Where in the _world_ did you learn to fight like that?" John looked over at me, his expression grim and suspicious. "That can't be standard for martial arts in Japan—especially Aikido. I researched it and it's supposed to be a peaceful combat, not lethal. But back there... how you wielded that dagger..."

The dagger was in my hand at my side, still covered in the Golem's blood. I didn't want to wipe if off on my clothes since I managed to only get a few speckles of it on them. Going into the hospital with another person's blood all over me plus a broken arm wouldn't look too good. I started down at the scarlet liquid slowly dripping off the blade's tip.

"Well..." I let out a long sigh. "My Sensei, Miyako, taught me more than Aikido."

"Obviously," John breathed. "Why?"

"Can we get to the hospital first?" I said. The pain in my arm was increasing to a level that made it difficult to think straight.

John exhaled sharply through his nose, but nodded.

* * *

The cab drive to the hospital was quiet and I wondered how in the hell I was going to tell John about my time in Japan—about what Miyako had truly trained me for and why I had to leave the country. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as I expected—after all, we just took on a notorious assassin together.

After getting to Bart's ER, we were able to be checked in rather quickly due to the time of night and John's connections. There was still going to be a wait before the X-Rays could be taken, so the doctor gave me some pain medication to help take the edge off and an ice pack for my arm which was now nearly black and swollen to a rather unsightly proportion.

Once we were left alone in the room, John turned toward me and merely stared at me expectantly. I let out a long sigh, glad that the painkillers were helping loosen up my axiety as well.

"So... I started taking Aikido lessons from a woman named Kaida Miyako," I said. "But... well, she said she saw potential in me. She began giving me private lessons for more... dangerous combat." I awkwardly adjusted the ice pack on my arm and grimaced in pain again.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Well, Aikido is—like you said—a peaceful combat intended to leave one's opponent alive and safe. It's mainly a self-defense thing. But Miyako convinced me that there were some people who couldn't be just pushed away and expected to never lash out again. That sometimes, the threat of death was the only way to deal with certain people."

John narrowed his eyes. "Why did she pick you?"

I swallowed. "Uh, looking back on it I think it's because I'm a... a sociopath. She noticed how distant I was, how strange and... uh..."

"Why would she want to train someone like that to fight?" John said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

I shrugged sheepishly. "To assassinate members of the Yakuza."

John nearly fell out of his seat. Straightening up and gripping the sides of his chair, his gaped at me.

"The-the _Yakuza?_ " he rasped in horror.

I nodded.

"Are you _mad?_ " John demanded.

"I didn't know!" I defended. "I didn't know until my last day in Japan. See, Miyako used to be part of one of the clans, but she managed to buy herself out. She was one of the kids that they picked off the streets and force to work for them. Smuggling drugs and money mostly. But then she got good at fighting, so they used her as someone to uh... send messages."

"She was an assassin?" John asked.

"More like a hired brute?" I said the sentence like a question because I realized I wasn't sure if Miyako had ever killed anyone on orders before. "Anyway, she _hates_ them for what they did to her. So... she started taking promising students from her Aikido class and training them on the side to become her own personal assassins and had been sending them to kill off major members of the Yakuza clan in Tokyo. I was supposed to be one of them, but she and I grew close and she didn't want to put me in that kind of danger. So she took another student, but when he went to kill one of the Yakuza, he got caught and he told them who had been sending all the assassins."

John's brows shot up. "Did they...? Is she...?"

"Miyako is alive as far as I know," I murmured. "But that student of hers that got caught... he told them that she and I were friends. Miyako made it a point not to grow close to anyone over the years, but somehow the two of us clicked. So on my last day in Japan, she came to me and told me all of this—the real reason for her training me, how she was involved with the Yakuza, and how they had sent her a message stating that they'd... they'd kill me if she didn't stop sending her assassins."

John's face was now turning into one of anger.

"Maxine!" he exclaimed. "This isn't something you can just keep from me! You're life was threatened by the _Yakuza?_ The most notorious crime syndicate in the world?!"

"It wasn't like I got involved with them on purpose!" I argued. "Miyako told me to leave the country—that if I came back here that I'd be safe and I believe her. She didn't keep records of our actual names at her dojo; she had everyone use simple aliases. Said it was part of her training or something. There's nothing tying me to her that they can trace, so there was no point in telling you and making you worry."

"I'm your big brother, it's my _job_ to worry about you!" John replied tightly. "We had that case with Soo Lin and her brother not long ago—Soo Lin was part of a crime syndicate in China and they still tracked her down here when she fled them. She was still killed."

" _They don't know my name_ ," I pressed. "All they know was that Miyako had a student she was fond of."

"A student that disappeared after she was threatened," John said. "Maxine, it won't be difficult for them to put two and two together—they're a _crime syndicate!_ You're smarter than this!"

"I told you I didn't _know!_ " I insisted. "Miyako... Miyako is the one who showed me how to... John, Miyako is the first one who saw me for who I _am._ She showed me what it is that makes me feel _alive._ I suppose I got... blinded by it. I was so wrapped up in her that..."

John's brows shot up. "'Wrapped up in her?'" he echoed.

I frowned at his expression, then it dawned on me what he was implying.

"No. No, John, nothing like _that,_ " I said. "I don't like women."

"So you like men then?" John queried.

"When did this become about my preferences?" I demanded. "I'm just not one for romance!"

John rubbed his forehead. "So... so this Miyako lady... she seriously trained you to be an assassin?"

"For the most part." I shrugged.

"And there's no way that the Yakuza could actually track you down?" John asked.

"Sherlock didn't seem worried," I said before thinking about my words.

John's face fell into sudden anger and I pursed my lips sheepishly.

" _Sherlock_ knew?" John exclaimed.

"He figured it out!" I defended.

"When?!"

"Er... during the case involving Soo Lin."

"You _are_ joking." John bowed his head in despair. "You told _Sherlock_ before me?"

"I told you! He figured it out!" I said tightly. "I made him promise me that he wouldn't tell you before I got the chance. So..."

"So you wait until I obviously know too much for you to back out of any other explanation?" John faced me now, his jaw clenched.

"I didn't want you to worry about me," I said, adverting my gaze. "You've always looked out for me growing up, and I appreciate that, but I'm grown now. I'm nearly thirty! I can take care of myself."

"You don't understand, Maxine," John sighed. "I know you're older. I know you can handle yourself. But your idea of safety is so radically different than what is _actually_ safe! This... this thing you have, where you feel exhilarated whenever you're in peril is not sane! You could seriously get yourself killed; you need someone rational to keep you... alive."

He gripped my arm and I finally met his gaze. John's anger had fallen away to desperation.

"You need to think about how your dying would affect those who care about you, Maxine," he said softly. "Please, at least for my sake, if something like this happens again, _tell_ me!"

"I-I will," I stammered, unable to argue with my brother's pleading expression. "I promise."

John nodded and gave a long sigh before releasing me. He sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face.

"Let's just get this bomber case situated, shall we?" he said.

I gave him a nod and glanced down at my injured arm. Admittedly, the conversation went a bit better than I anticipated. John was mad, but he wasn't to the point where he was disowning me as a sister or anything like that. Though, him worrying about me always made me anxious. I wished he could see that I had everything under control; that I wasn't going to do anything careless.

Yet even as I thought these things, I recalled how I'd purposely go to the dark alleys of Tokyo with the hopes of being attacked. (Not that that would have ever happened considering how ludicrously low the robbing was in Tokyo.) I remembered how eager I was for another case, just like Sherlock.

If something tantalizingly dangerous reared its head toward me again... could I really ignore it?


	25. The Great Game, Part 7

_Maxine_

My forearm suffered two fractures and had to be placed in a yellow cast. I couldn't help but be thankful that I was ambidextrous; I was able to draw, write, and wield my dagger just as effectively with my left hand as my right. The doctors provided some pain medication and said I would be out of the cast in two months.

When we returned to the flat, John called it an early night which gave me some time to explain to Sherlock about how I'd finally told my brother about Miyako.

"Took your sweet time," he had said dryly while browsing the web for information regarding painting. "He didn't seem too cross, which speaks well."

"John is a surprisingly understanding man," I replied, looking over my cast with a frown.

Sherlockpaused in his typing and looked at my injured arm. "I'm sorry you got hurt," he said softly.

I blinked and looked at him in confusion. "Isn't this part of the job? Risking life and limb—" I jokingly shook my casted arm, "—for solving the case? John and I both knew what we were getting into, Sherlock."

"I should have been faster," Sherlock murmured, glaring back at his laptop's screen.

He didn't say much else for the rest of the evening. Eventually, I retired to my room, too exhausted from the throb in my arm and our ordeal with the Golem. When morning came, Sherlock took us to the Hickman Gallery first thing. I was eager to see this Vermeer painting up close now that Lestrade had gotten us access to it. The Detective Inspector met us there and we spent about fifteen minutes staring at the damned thing with Miss Wenceslas awkwardly watching.

"It's a fake," Sherlock insisted as he typed away on his phone. "It _has_ to be."

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Miss Wenceslas retorted.

"It's a very _good_ fake, then," Sherlock corrected distastefully.

I stepped closer to the painting and frowned. It was elegant, to be certain. The starry sky was fetching and the buildings had been painted to sharply contrast with the horizon. It gave off an air of peacefulness; a cozy sort of calm. But Sherlock had to be right: the painting must be fake, otherwise Alex Woodbridge's death made very little sense—not to mention the Golem showing up to kill Professor Cairns as well.

"Alex wasn't interested in art," I said under my breath. "From where we found Professor Cairns, she wasn't either. She was in the planetarium, watching footage on stars and..."

Sherlock had spun to face Miss Wenceslas. "You _know_ about this, don't you? This is _you,_ isn't it?"

Miss Wenceslas turned to Lestrade, clearly exasperated. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

"It's painfully obvious, isn't it?" I continued to murmur to the painting. "I just can't put it together yet. Stars. They preferred stars..." My eyes went to the sky in the artwork, examining the dotted speckles of white and gold. "Then that means this is where the answer is. It has to be."

Behind me, I heard a mobile phone ringing. It was the familiar tone of the pink phone the bomber sent. Turning, I saw Sherlock pull it from his pocket and switch it on speaker.

"The painting is a fake," he said immediately.

All that responded was the sound of faint breathing. My gut tightened as I wondered who the bomber had taken now.

"It's a fake," Sherlock pressed. "That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

Once again, all that came from the other line was breathing.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock groaned. "Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

When the phone remained silent, Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Okay, I'll prove it," he said tightly. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

There was a pause. Sherlock cast John and me a look and I saw how irritated and slightly panicked his expression was. I glanced back at the painting, realizing I might have the answer. However, before I could speak, on the phone came the trembling voice of a young boy.

"Ten..." he said shakily.

Lestrade's face fell as Sherlock whirled to face the painting. He pushed me firmly out of the way so he could examine it, but not roughly enough to send me to the ground.

"It's a kid," Lestrade lamented. "Oh, God, it's a _kid!_ "

"What did he say?" John asked, his eyes wide with horror.

"Nine..." the boy's voice said.

"It's a countdown," Sherlock said as he squinted at every inch of the paining. "He's giving me time."

"Jesus!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it?" Sherlock breathed. "How? _How?_ "

"Eight..." the boy went on.

Sherlock turned and glared at Miss Wenceslas. "The kid will die. _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me!_ " he barked.

The woman flinched and opened her mouth, but Sherlock held up his hand to stop her.

"Seven..." the boy murmured.

"No, shut up," Sherlock said to Miss Wenceslas. "Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."

He turned back to the painting again as John began to pace quickly around. I stepped toward Sherlock, my heart beginning to pound in my chest.

"You think he'll kill the boy if you have help?" I asked him softly.

"Yes," Sherlock responded instantly. He glanced toward me with one brow raised as if he was surprised I might have the answer. Then he looked back at the painting. "Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

 _It is,_ I wanted to tell him but instead pursed my lips. Oddly, the threat of a child's life hit me a lot harder than any of the others. He was just a boy—he had his whole life ahead of him to experience and learn who he was. Yet the bomber was willing to steal that, all to play a game. This was the line, I realized. The line between the bomber and Sherlock.

The bomber and me.

"Six..." The boy sniffled between the numbers.

"Come _on,_ " John urged under his breath.

"Woodbridge knew, but _how?_ " Sherlock said.

"Five..." the boy said, this time sooner than the last number.

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade cried.

"Sherlock." John took a few steps toward the detective, his expression desperate.

 _The stars!_ I wanted to scream. _The bloody stars!_

Sherlock's eyes, which had been flickering all over the painting, suddenly stopped and fixated on a specific spot. His jaw went slack and his eyes widened.

"Oh!"

"Four..." the boy's voice said.

Sherlock turned and came to my side. He gripped my casted arm and lifted it as if it was the answer to everything.

"In the planetarium!" he exclaimed. "You heard it too." He glanced toward John and released me. "Both of you did. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"

The detective put the phone in John's hands and walked away from the painting. There was a grin plastered across his face as he pulled out his own phone from his pocket and began typing away.

"Three..." The boy was clearly getting more panicked.

" _What's_ brilliant?" John demanded. " _What_ is?"

"This is beautiful," Sherlock went on cheerfully. "I love this!" He continued to rapidly work at his phone.

"Two..." the boy whimpered.

" _Sherlock!_ " John bellowed furiously.

Finding what he needed, Sherlock strode back to John and snatched the pink phone. With a triumphant gleam in his eyes, he yelled into it, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

There was a short pause. Then, the boy's voice said, "Please. Is somebody there?"

Sherlock loosed a breath of relief. I trotted to his side, pleased he'd put the pieces together. It had to be connected to the stars—it was the only thing that made sense for both Woodbridge and Cairns to know about—and that exact video was playing at the planetarium when Cairns was killed.

"Somebody help me!" the boy begged.

Sherlock turned and handed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go," he said. "Go find out where he is and pick him up."

John, looking both thoroughly relieved and a touch cross, let his shoulders fall. Sherlock looked between John and me before pointing to the painting.

"The Van Buren Supernova, so-called," he said. He held up his phone over his shoulder so that Miss Wenceslas could see the screen. "Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight." He turned, grinning victoriously.

"So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" John asked, now smiling smugly at well at the woman behind us. Then, his phone gave off a trill. "Oh."

He frowned and pulled it out. Whatever my brother saw on his screen made his growl slightly under his breath. I frowned at him, but he waved me off. Sherlock was already heading out of the room, his stride holding a triumphant swagger.

"Oh, Sherlock," John called after him and hurrying along.

I was willing to bet my scarf that Mycroft had been the one to text John. I wondered why the older Holmes brother hadn't texted me this time as well. I quickly followed the boys out of the building, leaving Lestrade with a stunned-looking Miss Wenceslas.

* * *

At the New Scotland Yard, I sat on the edge of Lestrade's desk facing Sherlock and Miss Wenceslas, who were seated side-by-side across from Lestrade himself. The Inspector clearly wasn't too keen on me sitting on his desk, but he didn't bother telling me to get off and until he did I wasn't going to move. John has split off from us, claiming he had an errand to run before the next call from the bomber. I figured it was more work on Mycroft's case. When I offered to go with him, he refused and told me to stay with Sherlock in case the bomber called back sooner this time.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock said, his hands set in the prayer position under his chin. "Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and _you_ , Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

Miss Wenceslas looked down and didn't respond. I exhaled sharply through my nose and glanced at Lestrade.

"What exactly could she be sentenced for, Inspector?" I asked him.

Lestrade's brows bounced once with thought. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats..."

"I didn't know _anything_ about that!" Miss Wenceslas insisted in a panicked voice, her head snapping up to look at Lestrade. " _All_ those things! _Please_ believe me!"

Sherlock cast me a small impressed look. To be honest, I had learned quite a bit from him when it came to investigating. Sometimes, fear was the best tool to use in order to get information.

As Miss Wenceslas continued to stare desperately at Lestrade, Sherlock gave the Inspector a tiny nod to indicate the woman was telling the truth. I had to agree with that; when the boy's voice came on the phone, her expression was far too traumatized for someone who knew the whole picture.

"I just wanted my share—the thirty million," Miss Wenceslas insisted. She glanced toward me, then Sherlock, then bowed her head again. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

"Hm!" Sherlock cut in sarcastically.

Miss Wenceslas looked at him briefly. "Well, _nearly_ anyone," she amended. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea—a spark which he blew into flame."

"Who?" Sherlock said sharply.

Miss Wenceslas shook her head. "I don't know."

Lestrade gave a disbelieving laugh.

"It's true!" Miss Wenceslas pressed. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people... _his_ people. Well, there was never any real contact; just messages... whispers."

"And did those whispers have a _name?_ " Sherlock demanded.

Both of us were staring intently at the woman as she took a deep breath. She nodded, as if telling herself this was the best option, then she turned her head to Sherlock again.

"Moriarty," Miss Wenceslas breathed.

Slowly, Sherlock sinks back in his chair. He and I locked eyes for a long moment, understanding shooting through our gazes. Our suspicions had been proven true: Moriarty was the bomber. Now it was just a matter of finding him and putting a stop to this madness.

In unison, Sherlock and I grinned at each other.

* * *

 _John_

I strode alongside the railway lines at Battersea, tugging at the high-vis jacket that was pulled over my coat. Next to me was the Tube guard that had found Andrew West's body. I'd managed to get away from Sherlock and Maxine after Mycroft's latest text. It had read: _My patience is running thin. Mycroft Holmes._ That man truly loved to be subtly terrifying. I supposed Sherlock did as well, but since I knew my flatmate far better than I knew Mycroft, that was manageable. Besides, Sherlock didn't like to beat around the bush when he was irate. No, he shot _holes_ in the wall.

"So this is where West was found?" I asked the Tube guard.

He was a heavyset man with a face drawn with exhaustion. "Yeah," he replied.

"Uh-huh." I stared down at the rails as we came to a halt.

"You gonna be long?" the guard asked.

"I might be," I said honestly. I didn't really know what I was looking for. Usually Sherlock was with me and he had an uncanny ability to see every minute detail.

"You with the police, then?" the Tube guard queried.

"Sort of." Once again, I was honest. I didn't exactly have a badge or anything, so there was no point in saying yes in case someone demanded proof.

"I hate 'em," the guard grunted, glaring down at the rails.

My brows raised. "The police?"

"No. Jumpers," the man clarified. "People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

"Well, that's _one_ way of looking at it," I murmured. I squatted down to look more closely at the railway track.

"I mean it. It's all right for them. It's over in a split second—strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm?" The Tube guard shook his head. "The've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

I supposed that the guard had a point, but I wasn't about to start a debate on it when I had plenty of other things on my plate at the moment. I carefully ran my fingers along the track before looking at them. The rail was clean save some dirt and rust.

"Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line," I noted as I stood up. "Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much," the guard said.

I frowned. "You said his head was smashed in."

"Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood." The Tube guard shrugged.

"Okay..." I turned to look along the line, wondering if perhaps there was blood further up the track where West actually collided with the train.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," the Tube guard said. "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right," I replied as I walked a few paces down the line before squatting down again.

As the guard walked away, I hopped to my feet and glared at the railing. Sherlock always said talking out loud helped him think. Perhaps a go at it would help me as well.

"Right: so, uh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere—or _did_ he?" I said, feeling only slightly silly. "There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

Beside me, the points changed and a set of the tracks slid sideways into a new layout. I crouched down beside it, peering at the rails thoughtfully. If there was no blood on the tracks—or rather, not that _much_ blood—the only logical answer was that West wasn't killed here at all.

"Points."

Sherlock's voice sounded from behind me and at first I didn't see anything amiss with that. I was so used to examining scenes of deaths with him that his presence was perfectly natural.

"Yes!" I replied, getting to my feet again and turning to face him. Then I blinked, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

Sherlock was standing nearby with Maxine at his side. They were both bundled up in their coats, hands in their pockets. Oddly, both of them shared the same spark in their expression—the same hint of rising excitement. I wondered how the questioning with Miss Wenceslas had gone and what she said that could have made them both so gleeful.

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock said. "West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" I asked, furrowing my brow.

"Since the start," Maxine answered for him with a small shrug. "When he asked for a cab here, I asked him that same question."

"You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"Yes, actually," Maxine said.

He shot her a small glare before turning and walking away. "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

As Maxine and I fell into step behind him, she elbowed me lightly.

"Why didn't you have me come along?" she murmured.

I pursed my lips and shrugged. Truth was, I didn't have her come along because I wasn't sure what Mycroft was trying to do with her and Sherlock, and I didn't want to escalate it. If it truly was sibling rivalry, it could be that Mycroft was trying to imply he had interest in my sister in order to vex Sherlock. But the only way that _would_ vex Sherlock was if _he_ had interest in Maxine.

I wasn't certain why that didn't sit well with me. Of course, I could always chalk it up to old-fashioned brotherly protectiveness; the big brother not wanting his kid sister to date because it might lead to her getting hurt. However, I had been asking Maxine about her dating life since she was twenty. Part of me was always concerned she was just too... strange to get a lover of any kind.

Yet imagining her with Sherlock...

Was it that I didn't want to her to be with anyone or was it just _him?_ Was it because some part of me had been concerned since we'd moved in with the detective that Maxine was getting deeper and deeper into the side of her that I didn't understand? Was it because when I saw her so comfortable and open with Sherlock it made me feel like I was losing my little sister? Or that I'd never truly known my little sister to begin with?

All of it was far too complex for my tastes—especially right now. So I wasn't about to let Mycroft play his little game with Maxine.

"I figured, you'd... uh... rather be with Sherlock when he questioned Miss Wenceslas," I lied. "I would've sat in too, but..." I took out my mobile and showed her Mycroft's latest text.

"He really is a child, isn't he?" Maxine muttered.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Sherlock called over his shoulder. Evidently we weren't talking quietly enough for the detective's sharp ears to pick up.

"Then you can tell him for me," Maxine said with a playful smile. " _You_ can get away with it."

Sherlock grunted in amusement.

I adverted my gaze. I'd never seen Maxine be so open and humorous with anyone besides myself. Part of me was pleased that she was able to find someone else to relate to, but another part recoiled from the idea. It wasn't a sense of jealousy or possessiveness, it was more... fear. Sherlock was dangerous—it was part of the reason we moved in with him. But after Maxine getting her arm hurt by the Golem... after seeing how easy it would be for her to get seriously hurt or even killed...

"You're lagging behind, Johnny," Maxine said.

I looked up. She and Sherlock were a good few paces ahead of me now. I swallowed and hastened my pace.

"Sorry," I muttered.

Maxine smiled at me and I awkwardly smiled back. One thing I knew for certain: her and Sherlock being so cheerful probably didn't mean anything good.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Walking along a street not far from Battersea, John and I strode on either side of Sherlock. The air was a perfect level of chilly to me. I delighted in the overcast and the warmth of my scarf. The cast on my arm made putting on and taking off anything with long sleeves a little annoying, but I had already enjoyed doodling a small picture of Kazros on it in a black Sharpie. I planned on adding much more to it before the two months had passed for it to come off.

"The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it," Sherlock said as we walked. "Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know," John said. "Maddie and I met them."

I nodded in confirmation.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it," Sherlock went on, ignoring us. "My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" John asked.

Sherlock turned into the drive of a maisonette and trotted up the steps at the side of the building. It lead to the front door of flat 21A on the first floor. John and I hurried after him as he began to rummage in his pocket.

"Sherlock!" John said urgently. "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock assured.

With swift and impressive efficiency, Sherlock jimmied the lock with the pick he'd pulled from his coat pocket. Without hesitation, he slipped inside.

"Jesus!" John breathed.

I shrugged at him as the two of us went in after the detective. My brother hastily shut the door behind us and the two of us followed Sherlock up a set of stairs and into a clean living room.

"So, uh, where are we?" I asked.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say?" Sherlock said. "Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe...?" John began.

"The brother?" I queried as Sherlock strode to the window and pulled back the curtal.

"Brother?" John echoed.

"Brother of West's fiancee," Sherlock clarified.

"We met him, briefly," I told John.

"Ah." John nodded.

I went to Sherlock's side, navigating around the coffee table. Outside the window was a one-story extension, the roof of which could be easily climbed onto from the window. The extension reached all the way to the bottom of the garden that ended in a wall, and directly on the other side of the wall was the railway line.

" _He_ stole the memory card; killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock said.

Gently pushing me aside by the shoulder, he then dropped to his knees and pulled out his magnifier. He prudently examined the edge of the window sill, pale green eyes sharp. John strode over and peered over his shoulder curiously.

"Then why'd he do it?" my brother asked.

The sound of someone unlocking the front door came from behind us. Sherlock stood and the three of us turned.

"Let's ask him," Sherlock suggested.

Reaching around the back of his jeans, John stalked over to the door with the swift and careful steps of a soldier. I started to go after him, realizing that if Sherlock was right—and he rarely wasn't—that my brother was about to confront a killer; I wanted to make certain John didn't get hurt.

However before I could take a full step, Sherlock gripped my shoulder and pulled mer back into his chest. I didn't think he meant to pull me so hard and he looked a bit embarrassed when I glanced back at him. He simply shook his head and put a finger to his lips. I understood well enough: he was telling me John would be fine.

John reached the top of the landing and aimed his pistol down the stairs. I could hear the footsteps of Joe coming up, and they faltered for a moment.

"Don't," John said sternly, his aim steady and firm.

There was another step, and I saw the top of a bike peeking over the landing from the stairs as if Joe was getting ready to throw it.

" _Don't,_ " John repeated, this time even harsher.

The bike lowered.

"Put it down," John ordered. "Then come up."

There were the sounds of a bike falling a few steps down and then John backed up into the living room, training his gun on Joe as he came up the stairs. He held his hands up and his expression was a mixture of frustration and fear. His eyes found me and he pursed his lips. He had to recognize John and me from when we'd come to question Lucy.

"I think you know why we're here," Sherlock said dryly. "Take a seat." He nodded toward the sofa.

Joe glanced warily among the three of us, then when John gestured with his gun for the man to comply, he went and sat down.

John positioned himself between Joe and the door while I stayed by the window. Glancing at the window sill, I saw small pinpricks of red. I guessed they were blood and that's what Sherlock had been looking at earlier. It would be all the proof we needed.

"It wasn't meant to..." Joe began, his voice tight and shaky.

Sherlock looked away, clearly exasperated. I guessed the detective wasn't eager to waste his time on interrogating someone so emotional when we knew Moriarty was so close.

"God." Joe rubbed his face with his hand. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus." He sinked back into the sofa, distraught.

"Why did you kill him?" John asked.

"It was an accident," Joe insisted.

Sherlock snorted.

"I _swear_ it was," Joe pressed.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock asked, fixating his unyielding gaze on the man.

"I started dealing drugs," Joe admitted. "I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno—I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands— _serious_ people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job."

Joe squirmed in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under Sherlock's stare. I pursed my lips and exhaled through me nostrils.

"Had a bit too much to drink, did he?" I guessed.

Joe nodded. "I mean, usually he's so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up," he said. "He told me about these missile plans—beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune."

Joe put his head in his hands for a moment, most likely remembering the night. I glanced at the window sill I was leaning on. When I looked back, I saw Joe looking at me. His eyes shimmered slightly.

"It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered," Joe said. "Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew." He looked guiltily toward John now.

"What happened?" John prompted.

Joe gestured weakly toward the landing. "We got... we got in a row. Turned to a scuffle and I... I pushed him too hard. He fell down the steps."

"Ah," I said with a small sigh. "And you didn't call anyone? Didn't think to blame it on a stumble?"

"I _was_ gonna call an ambulance," Joe insisted with a short glance at me, "but it was too late." He shook his head. "I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock said, tilting his head.

He turned and came over to where I leaned by the window. Leaned over me, he pulled aside the curtain to look out toward the tracks. Our height difference allowed him to peer over my head without any trouble, but I was a bit startled with how close his chest was to my face. He smelled like parchment and chemicals that I guessed hung on his clothes from all his time at Bart's lab.

"Carrying Andrew West way away from here," Sherlock went on. "His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

I abruptly understood. In an attempt to get rid of the body, Joe had rolled West off the roof outside his window and onto a passing train. However, when the train reached the curve, it threw the corpse off.

"And points," John added.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed.

I cleared my throat and Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize how he was basically trapping me on where I sat on the sill. Pressing his lips together apologetically, he took a step back and turned to face Joe again.

"D'you still have it, then?" John asked after glancing warily at us. "The memory stick?"

Joe nodded stiffly.

"Fetch it for me—if you wouldn't mind," Sherlock said.

Joe let out a long sigh and got to his feet to walk out of the room. Sherlock stepped over to John with me just behind.

"Distraction over, the game continues," the detective said quietly.

"Well, maybe _that's_ over, too," John suggested. "We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John?" Sherlock pointed out. "It's a countdown. We've only had four."

"I'm going to guess the last one is going to be a bit trickier," I murmured.

Sherlock nodded, but I could see the eagerness in his eyes. "Best be prepared then, shouldn't we?"

* * *

 _Sherlock_

"No, no, _no!_ " I lifted my arms indignantly at the TV from where I sat in my armchair. "Of _course_ he's not the boy's father. Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

The show on the screen blared the booing of a large audience. Across from me, sitting in John's usual chair, Maxine was drawing on her cast. She glanced at me with raised brows before looking over at where he brother sat at the dining table.

"Why did you do this, again?" she asked dryly.

"Get him into crap telly?" John guessed. "Mm, dunno. Knew it was dangerous though."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince," I replied.

Night had fallen outside and the chilly air was wafting in through the yet-to-be-repaired windows. I was sitting almost sideways in my chair, legs kicked up on one of the armrests. John was typing away at his laptop, most likely documenting our day for a later blog post about this case.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" he asked.

"Yep. He was over the moon," I said. "Threatened me with a knighthood—again."

"You know, I'm still waiting," John said.

"Hmm?" I looked round curiously at him.

"For you to admit a little knowledge on the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker." John grinned.

"Didn't do either of _you_ any good, did it?" I replied sourly.

Maxine opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of it and clamped it shut again. I gazed at her with a frown but before I could pester her, John spoke.

"No, but neither of us are the world's only consulting detective," John said.

A smile found my lips. "True."

John closed the lid of his laptop and got to his feet. "I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

I returned my attention to the TV. "Mm!"

"I'll probably get some takeaway," Maxine said, going back to sketching on her cast. About a sixth of it was now covered in elaborate patterns with characters drawn in the eastern style of hers among them. "Er, tell Sarah I said hello."

"Uh, milk," John added, pausing at the door and looking back at us. "We need milk."

"I'll get some," I said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John turn back with a look of disbelief. "Really?!" he exclaimed.

"Really," I assured.

"And some beans, then?" John asked hopefully.

"Mm," I agreed without looking away from the TV.

John hesitated a moment longer. Maxine let out a small chuckle.

"I'll make sure he's not an imposter, don't worry," she said.

John grunted in amusement before heading out. When I heard the front door close behind him, I glanced toward Maxine.

"I _am_ capable of doing some shopping," I said. "I did get on without the two of you for a good while before we met, you know."

"Yeah, I still don't know how you didn't starve," Maxine replied casually, still focused on her doodling.

"There's that snark again," I muttered, shaking my head at her. "Are you certain that you're just getting comfortable with me, or is it that the game we're in is putting you in a good mood?"

"Could be a bit of both," Maxine admitted. After a moment, she paused in her sketching and her eyes flicked up to meet mine. "Did you really give the plans to Mycroft?"

I raised my brows at her. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Maxine's mouth quirked into a half-smirk. "Because usually after you've spent time around him you're in a downright rotten mood for at least an hour or two. But when you came back, you seemed perfectly normal."

I blinked a few times. Did Maxine really know me that well? She had been able to tell that Mycroft was my brother from the moment she'd met him; she'd also known about the painting's flaw before I did. At least part of it. The majority of the time, I was still able to figure things out and pick apart cases before her, but on occasion she managed to surprise me.

"Is there any point in me trying to lie my way out?" I asked dryly.

"Not really, but thanks for asking." Maxine smiled.

I flipped to sit upright in my chair while grabbing my computer notebook that was resting against the side of it on the floor. Flipping it open, I cast a slightly irritated look toward her.

"I was hoping to get this last part over with alone," I admitted.

"Last part?" Maxine put her pen away and raised her brows at me. "You mean the last pip?"

I nodded as I brought up my website on the screen.

Maxine sat back in the chair with a dejected expression. "Why? John and I have been with you on this so far."

"Yes, but..." I trailed off as I typed into my message box: _Found: The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect._ "I believe this is when our bomber will reveal himself."

"Moriarty," Maxine said.

I nodded and Maxine gave a huff of irritation.

"So why can't we be with you for that?" she demanded.

"Well..." I stared at my hands hovering over the keyboard as I racked my brain for a decent location. "He's proven to be a bit dangerous."

"Obviously," Maxine said tightly. "So having back-up would be wise, don't you think?"

"Mm..." was all I responded with.

I bit my lip for a moment before typing: _The Pool. Midnight._ Clicking send, I waiting for the confirmation before closing the computer's lid. Maxine was glaring at me; I'd never seen her so irritated—not at _me_ at least. Not even when I snapped at her and John the day the bomb went off on Baker Street.

"What?" I asked.

Maxine let out an exasperated breath. "Sherlock. That's not fair. We've put just as much effort into this as you have—we should get to meet him too."

"John would never be okay with me keeping the plans," I said. "He'd insist on giving them to Mycroft. But I need something to bring him out."

"And you think the plans... ah." Maxine's face lit with sudden understanding. "The _plans._ That's what he's been after? He knew Mycroft would come to you with that case so he set off a bomb outside our front door to distract you. He wants the plans for himself—to sell or... something."

I grinned. "You always catch on quick," I said. "Yes. I don't know what his last pip was _going_ to be, but I'm not waiting for it now that we've got the memory stick."

Maxine sighed. "You're right, John would never let you go off to meet this guy with the memory stick in hand. Too risky."

"But you...?" I raised my brows at her quizzically.

Maxine met my eyes for a long moment. "But _I_ like risky," she said. "When do we meet him?"

I let out a small grunt of amusement, but it died quickly in my throat. To be honest, the reason I didn't tell either Maxine or John about keeping the plans wasn't just about John not liking my tactics. Bringing them right to the bomber—to Moriarty—proved to be a great liability. If anything happened to either of them... I wasn't used to having weaknesses to exploit. The bomber had been using hostages this entire time; one of them even died. But I didn't feel much about that failure other than frustration that it had happened. There wasn't grief or pain. Just annoyance.

But if it had been John... if it had been Maxine...

"Perhaps you could just go get the milk and beans..." I began weakly.

"Sherlock." Maxine gazed unflinchingly at me. "I'm going with you. You can't stop me."

I glanced warily at her cast. Maxine followed my gaze and her expression fell into a mixture of disbelief and annoyance.

"Oh come _on,_ it was pure luck that he got me," she said.

"Luck?" I repeated, raising my brows.

"The lighting was awful and I had to move around you and John." Maxine folded her arms.

"Well, this bomber doesn't _use_ hand-to-hand combat, he uses _bombs._ " I got to my feet and rubbed the back of my neck.

"To be honest, I'm a bit moved that you're worried," Maxine said. "Doesn't seem like you."

I pursed my lips for a moment. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Maxine stood out of her chair and snatched her yellow scarf from the back of it. As she twined it around her neck, she smiled at me.

"So, where are we going?" she asked.

I wanted to groan. There really was no way out of this. Even if I tried to leave Maxine behind, she was clever enough to find a way to follow me. I supposed that I should just be grateful that I'd at least gotten John out of the way for this one. Besides, it might prove useful to have backup.

"Hope you don't mind the smell of chlorine," I told her before heading toward the door, snagging my coat as I went.


	26. The Great Game, Part 8

_Maxine_

The pool where Carl Powers drowned seemed like the perfect place to finally meet our bomber. The lights were already on when Sherlock and I arrived and we treaded carefully as we entered the surrounding area of the indoor pool. Sherlock insisted on going first through every door and only after he carefully examined it for traps.

We'd taken off our coats and left them in the locker room due to the heat and humidity in the building. This left Sherlock in his suit while I was in a less formal T-shirt and jeans, though I kept my scarf around my neck.

"I'm not particularly superstitious, but it kind of feels like a good luck charm," I'd told Sherlock when he'd raised his brows at me.

The scent of chlorine filled my nostrils, but I wasn't particularly bothered by it. The pool glistened a cerulean blue to our right. There was an upper gallery toward the shallow end of the pool where people would watch the swimmers, but it was shrouded in darkness. I saw Sherlock's eyes lock onto it for a moment as we walked toward that side of the room. We _had_ to be walking into a trap and Sherlock must know that, but I had confidence in him that he'd figure a way out of it.

After thoroughly looking around the room, Sherlock pulled the memory stick from his pocket and turned toward the pool, holding the prize in the air.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," he declared loudly, his voice echoing off the tiled walls and the flat surface of the water. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance—all to distract me from _this."_

Sherlock gestured with the memory stick and began to turn in a slow circle, waiting for the response. I looked around as well, my heart thrumming in my ears. I was eager to finally see this Moriarty face-to-face—to see what he was capable of.

"Evening."

Startled by the familiar voice, Sherlock and I turned to see that John had walked into the pool area from the other locker room. He was wrapped snugly in a hooded jacket and his hands were tucked into the pockets. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and I couldn't tell if it was from the heat or the obvious turmoil he was in. He stared at us with a tight grimace.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he said in a very stilted tone, almost robotic.

"John," Sherlock breathed. "What the hell...?"

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming," John said, still in that awkward lilt.

"No..." I rasped, sudden understanding striking me. "Bloody hell, John, no..."

I started to move toward him in slow steps, not quite certain what my body was doing. I saw the coat—I _knew_ what had to be in it—but I couldn't stop from trying to go to my brother. Sherlock was at my side, making the same motions. His face was trapped in one of shock and bewilderment, making him look like he was twelve years old.

Before we could get too far, John took his hands from his pockets and pulled the coat open. Strapped to his chest was a large hunk of black metal covered in wires and a single red LED light: a bomb. From somewhere in the upper gallery, a sniper's laser trained onto it.

"What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" John said tightly, obviously repeated words said to him in an earpiece I just noticed.

We continued to walk toward him, but I noticed Sherlock was now looking everywhere but at my brother; raking the room with his eyes for anyone else.

"Gottle o' geer... gottle o' geer... gottle o' geer..." John said, his voice nearly breaking.

"Stop it," Sherlock ordered, looking at John again, his eyes wide and horrified.

This wasn't okay. I was fine with my life being on the line—with _my_ life being the one in danger. It was what made me feel like I was real; that I existed. But John... John was the only constant in my entire life. The only one who ever unyieldingly cared about me and tried to help me. I wanted to run to John—to hug him and let my body be between the sniper's bullet and that bomb on his chest.

But that bullet would go straight through me even if I managed to get to my brother before the shot was fired.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," John narrated. "I stopped him..." My brother's face cringed slightly and he looked down at the laser dancing over the bomb. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Shut up," I snapped, heat rising in my face.

"What's wrong, Maxine?" John asked tightly, looking up at me with pained eyes. "Only care when it's... your brother?"

I gritted my teeth as my body shook. There was so much anger inside me with nowhere to go.

Sherlock was glaring around the room. "Who _are_ you?" he demanded.

A door opened at the end of the pool and a soft male voice with an Irish accent spoke out.

"I gave you my number."

I turned to face the new arrival, my hand already itching for the hilt of my dagger. Striding casually toward us was a familiar man. It was Jim—Molly's boyfriend—but this wasn't the fumble-fingered casually-dressed Londoner who did indeed leave his number for Sherlock at Bart's. His hair was immaculately kept, he was sharply-dressed in a suit and tie that could rival Sherlock's, and he carried a murderous look on his face.

"I though you would've called," Jim said in an Irish accent as he strode toward us from the deep end of the pool, hands in his pockets.

I wanted nothing more than to crouch down and take my dagger from my boot to throw it at him. He'd been so close to us—right _there_ at Bart's and we didn't even realize it. His acting had been so flawless that even Sherlock didn't notice.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket..." Jim said as Sherlock took out the pistol from his pocket, "...or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock raised the pistol to aim it at Jim's head. "Both," he said flatly.

"Jim Moriarty," the man introduced, completely fearless of Sherlock's gun. "Hi!"

Sherlock tilted his head to peer more closely at the man while I narrowed my eyes at him. Moriarty smiled between both of us.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" he said teasingly. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point."

I wanted to charge at the man and tackle him into the pool. The arrogance that permeated off of him was suffocating. He rounded the corner of the pool as Sherlock glanced toward the dancing laser still on John's chest.

As if sensing an unspoken question from the detective, Moriarty said, "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"Of course not," I snarled.

Moriarty looked toward me now, a giddy smile catching his lips. "Ah, she can _bark._ Can she bite, too?" He pointed at me as his gaze went to Sherlock again. "She was my first choice, you know. For this." He nodded toward John. "Would've been far more interesting, I think, but you two just _never_ leave each other's sides, do you? Getting to see her all puffed up is entertaining as well, I suppose."

Moriarty reached the corner of the pool and stopped. I had to contain the rising rage inside me. Anger wasn't something I often felt—or perhaps it was that the anger I'd felt in the past was simply _minuscule_ compared to this. It wasn't a comfortable feeling; I was so used to being in control of my feelings and my actions but right then I was trembling.

I wanted to _kill_ something.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world," Moriarty said after casting me a smug smirk. "I'm a specialist, you see..." He suddenly looked surprised, as if he only just realized the connection. "Like you!"

Sherlock glanced at me warily before fixating his gaze on Moriarty. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?"

Moriarty grinned as he began to walk forward again. His dark eyes were lit with something akin to mischief, but whatever it was... it was far, _far_ more lethal.

"Dear Jim," Sherlock went on. "Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Now only a few meters away from John, Moriarty stopped again. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathed. "Brilliant."

Moriarty smiled proudly. "Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me—and no-one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the pistol in his hand. " _I_ did."

"You've come the closest," Moriarty admitted. "Now you're in my way."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," Moriarty said.

Sherlock's face remained unchanged, unmoved. "Yes you did."

Moriarty shrugged. His actions seemed overly childish to me, like he was putting up this coy, quirky front when there was something absolutely horrific beneath, absolutely the _opposite_ of the innocence of a child.

"Yeah, okay, I did," he confessed. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock..." His voice suddenly went high-pitched and sing-song. "Daddy's had enough now!"

Once again he started to walk closer. I darted my eyes over to John who remained silent and stiff. I had a feeling that Moriarty told him that if he said _anything_ he'd be blown to bits. What could I do? Could I try and throw my dagger up into the shadowed gallery overhead and hope it hit the sniper? Even if it did, the shot would go off first. I could try and tackle my brother into the water, but even then Moriarty was starting to position himself between John and the edge of the pool.

"I've shown you what I can do," Moriarty said, back to his normal tone. "I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

"Could've phoned him," I muttered, remembering John's quip to Mycroft the first time we met him.

Moriarty snorted and his eyes went to me. "Cute. Didn't take you for a joker, Max."

"Don't call me that," I breathed.

Moriarty laughed now and clapped his hands a few times. "She _is_ spunky!" he said to Sherlock. "I do enjoy redheads."

John closed his eyes briefly. I couldn't tell if it was out of momentary anger or desperation due to his situation. Sherlock glanced between Moriarty and John, his own expression showing a hint of strain.

"Anyway!" Moriarty sang before his voice grew low and stern. "Take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." He smiled. "Although I have _loved_ this—this little game of ours." He put on his London accent for a brief moment. "Playing Jim from I.T." He swapped seamlessly back to his Irish lilt. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock said, clearly unamused with Moriarty's antics.

"That's what people _DO!_ "

Moriarty screamed the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant. His eyes went manically wide and he took a stomping step forward, leaning his whole torso into it. John winced slightly, the only sign of him being startled while I blinked in surprise. Sherlock, meanwhile, remained calm, unmoved.

"I _will_ stop you," he promised softly.

Moriarty was calm again. It took him less than two seconds to return to his previous demeanor. "No you won't," he replied simply.

Sherlock looked over at John deliberately now. "You all right?" he asked.

John kept his gaze away. My previous suspicions of him being given instructions not to speak to us seemed to be true.

Moriarty finally reached his side. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John briefly met Sherlock's eyes, then mine, and he nodded once. I loosed a small breath. My patience was starting to run thin. This was not the accelerated heartbeat I'd come to long for, this was not the rush I wanted. This was pure anxiety—nothing but the feeling of... well, the feeling of an actual _bomb_ being nearby threatening to blow up my brother.

Sherlock took one hand off the gun and held out the memory stick to Moriarty.

"Take it," he insisted.

"Huh?" Moriarty looked at the offer in surprise. "Oh! That!" Casually, he strolled past John and reached for the stick with a grin. "The missile plans!" Taking the stick from Sherlock's fingers, he brought it to his lips and kissed it.

Behind him, I spied John murmured to himself. His eyes were downcast and I couldn't quite read his expression, but I did see his thumb run over his fingers. He was trying to think of what to do next. He _should_ just stand there—just stand there and make certain no-one had an excuse to shoot the bomb strapped to his chest. Yet clearly he was thinking about doing something else.

I focused my eyes back on Moriarty, not wanting to give my brother away. I wanted to shake my head at John and shout at him to just be _still_ for goodness' sake.

But I was never one to convince him to do anything.

Moriarty lowered the memory stick to stare at it for a moment. Then, in a sudden sing-song voice, he yelled, "Boring!" He shook his head disappointedly. "I could have got them anywhere."

Nonchalantly, he tossed the stick into the pool. Sherlock and I only had a moment to be surprised before John suddenly jolted forward. He slammed himself against Moriarty's back and wrapped one arm around his neck while the other went around his chest.

"Maddie! Sherlock! Run!" John ordered tightly.

"Are you _mental?_ " I breathed.

" _Good!_ " Moriarty exclaimed. " _Very_ good."

Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty's head. He shot a quick glance at me and I could see the nervousness in his eyes. He wasn't sure what the hidden sniper might do and neither did I, but I did take the opportunity to take out the dagger from my boot.

"For God's sake, Maxine, _no!_ " John scolded me. He gripped Moriarty tighter and then spoke to him savagely. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

Moriarty remained perfectly calm. He looked at Sherlock. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. Him and the redhead." He smiled toward me briefly. "But then, people do get sentimental about their pets."

John grimaced angrily and only tightened his hold. Moriarty scowled at him for the discomfort.

"They're so touchingly loyal. But, _oops!_ " He grinned at John before looking back toward Sherlock and me. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

Moriarty chuckled as John looked at the both of us. His expression went from anger, to shock, to anguish quite quickly. I swallowed and looked over toward Sherlock. There was a laser pointed directly at his forehead. When I turned, the light of yet another laser glinted in my eye and I had to blink a few times.

There were two more snipers in the opposite gallery, and they were aiming and Sherlock and me.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty sang.

He chuckled again as John released him and stepped back. My brother raised his hands up to signal to the snipers that he wasn't going to try anything else and the third laser resumed its position on the bomb strapped to him.

I wanted to scream. Moriarty had been several steps ahead of us. He had a whole team at his disposal while Sherlock had two Watsons. Moriarty straightened his suit and gestured to it indignantly.

"Westwood!" he said irritably, naming the brand of his clothing.

Gathering his composure, he stood calmly in front of Sherlock, who was still aiming the pistol at his head. I kept the grip on my dagger white-knuckle tight and was trying not to feel more and more hopeless as time went by.

"D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you?_ " Moriarty asked.

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced as if the thought insulted him. "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you."

He ran his eyes over Sherlock's body before locking his gaze back on the detective's. Again, his personality altered; his voice became untamed and vicious, his eyes were wide and holding the promise of nothing but calamity.

"I'll burn the _heart_ out of you." His face was a snarl when he said the word 'heart' but at the end of the sentence, he almost looked regretful. Like a school kid telling an old playmate that if he didn't start playing nice, they couldn't be friends anymore.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock replied coolly.

"But we both know that's not _quite_ true," Moriarty said.

Oddly, I felt a stutter in my chest. I couldn't help but glance at Sherlock in time to see the detective blink involuntarily.

Moriarty looked down, smiling, then shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off." He causally looked around, perhaps checking his exit route before turning back to Sherlock. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock readjusted his aim at Moriarty's head. "What if I was to shoot you now—right now?" he asked.

Moriarty didn't seem remotely perturbed by the notion. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He opened his eyes and mouth wide in feign shock before grinning. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; I really would." He screwed up his nose. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Slowly, he began to turn away. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

He glanced back at Sherlock with slight distaste before walking calmly toward the side door through which John had come earlier. Sherlock carefully stepped forward to keep him in view.

"Catch... you... later," he said slowly.

The door opened and Moriarty's voice echoed back to us, once again high-pitched and sing-song. "No you won't!"

The door closed.

For a brief moment, none of us moved. I darted my eyes around to see all the lasers were gone. I took two breaths: one to make sure I could still breathe and the second to try and calm my thrashing heart. Then I darted to my brother and started helping him take off the over-sized jacket while Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him to start unfastening the vest with the bomb. In my haste, my dagger fell to the floor in a clatter, but I didn't pay it any mind.

"All right?" Sherlock asked.

John tilted his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. His limbs were like noodles and I couldn't get the jacket off of him without his cooperation.

"John," I said urgently.

He still didn't respond. His eyes were closed.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," John finally managed. "I'm fine."

All of us were breathing like we'd ran a marathon. I managed to get the jacket off John and tossed it aside as Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran around to get the vest. He pulled at it without avail for a moment, making John nearly fall over.

"Sherlock," John said, either out of discomfort or concern for the bomb being triggered.

Sherlock, clearly too intent on getting the deadly device away from his friend, practically ripped it off John's arms.

"Sh- _Sherlock!_ " John exclaimed.

The detective bent and skimmed the bomb across the tile as far away as he could. John staggered and I caught him.

"Jesus," John breathed. He reached up and pulled the earpiece from his ear as his breathing began to accelerate.

Sherlock stared at us for a moment before scrambling to pick up the pistol and running the the door Moriarty left through. John's knees began to buckle and I instantly wrapped an arm around his waist while using the other to pull his arm over my shoulders.

"Oh, Christ," he rasped.

"John, John, it's all right," I assured, hoping I was doing this right. I could certainly relate to this much more than when Sarah had nearly been killed. Seeing John in a situation like that... that his life could be taken from the pull of a finger... "I'm here—we're here."

John turned and pulled me into a hug. I hugged him back fiercely, supporting his weight so he wouldn't collapse. I felt him tremble for a moment before letting out a long breath through his lips as he tried to calm himself. He tightened his arms around me one more time before releasing me, but I still kept an arm around his waist.

Sherlock came back toward us, apparently not finding any sign of Moriarty outside. His eyes were wide and he began to pace nearby, so hyper and distracted that he didn't seem to realize he was scratching his head with the barrel of a cocked pistol.

"Are _you_ okay?" John asked him breathlessly.

The detective continued to pace while scratching his head with the gun. "Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." His words came out fast and tight. He finally stopped and turned toward us, wide-eyed and seemingly winded. "That er... _thing_ that you, er, that you did—that, um..." He cleared his throat. "...you offered to do. That was, um... good."

John stared blankly ahead of himself for a moment. "I'm glad no-one saw that."

Sherlock had temporarily lowered his hand long enough not to risk accidentally shooting himself in the head, although he had terrible jitters as he held the gun down by his side. He then lifted the gin again and rubbed his chin while looking down at John in confusion.

"Hmm?"

John adverted his gaze. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged. "People do little else. And Max helped."

John and I instantly darted apart.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John groaned.

"People would _really_ talk then," Sherlock muttered.

The detective smiled at us and John snorted in laughter while I rolled my eyes. I gestured to the gun Sherlock still had by his chin.

"Will you—Sherlock, you're going to give me a heart attack," I said in exasperation.

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock lowered the pistol. "I know not to pull the trigger."

"You're shaking," I pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged sheepishly.

I laughed breathlessly. "Only _you_ would fiddle with a cocked gun," I rasped.

John had gone back to lean on the far wall. He chuckled and looked down to brace himself to get up again. All of us seemed to be high off the adrenaline at the moment; giddy and wired. However, despite that, when I saw the laser reappear on my brother's chest, all sense of euphoria was ripped away.

"Oh..." John breathed in anguish.

A door near the deep end of the pool burst open and Moriarty came striding in, clapping his hands and turning to face us.

"Sorry, boys! And girl, I suppose. I'm soooooo changeable!" he said cheerfully.

John grimaced in disbelief as I contemplated darting for my dagger. Sherlock kept his back to Moriarty, staring up into the gallery where the sniper was hidden. Had only one come back? Or were all three hiding up there? Could there be even more than that? Looking back at John, I realized it had to be at least two, because another was dancing on his chest next to the first.

Then I saw one on my side and could see the glare of another near my head. Sherlock had at least three roving over him. How many did he _have?_ Had Moriarty seriously let us believe we were going to get out of this just to come back to tear it away? I stared down at the gleaming blade of my dagger on the floor near my foot.

Moriarty spread his arms wide and laughed. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair with myself, it is my _only_ weakness."

He lowered his hands and put them in his pockets. Sherlock turned his head to look at John and me. Something was going on in his head; his pale green eyes were sharp and calculating.

 _Please tell me you have a plan, Sherlock_ , I thought desperately.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty said. "You just can't. I _would_ try to convince you but..." he laughed and his voice grew higher again, "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock stared between John and me. His face gave no emotion, but his eyes were so fiercely intent that I knew they had to be asking for something. I didn't have a complete idea of what Sherlock might have in mind—I didn't even know if it would get us out alive—but what I did know is that no matter what the detective did, it was going to at _least_ piss off Moriarty and at our current predicament, that's all I could hope for.

John seemed to be on the same page, for when I gave a small nod of consent, he did as well, giving Sherlock permission to do whatever he deemed necessary.

Sherlock turned to face Moriarty, his expression still unreadable. "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he said.

The detective aimed the pistol at Moriarty. His only response was to smile confidently at Sherlock, unafraid; unflinching. Slowly, Sherlock lowered the pistol downward until it was pointing directly at the bomb vest. All four sets of eyes in the room gravitated to it, realization spreading across us.

John's breathing grew heavy again while I gripped my yellow scarf and swallowed as I thought about how blowing to bits could be either a very fast way to die or a very horrific way if someone somehow survived the initial blast. Sherlock was calm, focused. It wasn't surprising, but I felt like that might be comforting. He'd been too wound up earlier when someone was aiming a sniper at John. It could mean that he had a plan to get us out of this with all our limbs intact.

Moriarty, meanwhile, darted his eyes down to the bomb and for the first time, he actually looked anxious. It gave me a thrill of triumph to see it; a sense of victory. Even if we died, at least we could take this bastard with us.

Sherlock's aim was steady and he lifted his eyes to lock with Moriarty's. For a moment, they merely stared at one another. Moriarty, who had lost his previous grin of confidence seemed to recover from the shock of Sherlock's move and began to smile again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly; a man accepting a bet. A bet that was going to probably kill all of us.

I closed my eyes.


	27. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 1

_Maxine_

I wasn't certain why Miyako came to my mind in what was chopping up to be my last moments in life, but I thought about how things might have been if I'd stayed in Japan instead of coming back to London. Would I be in this much peril? Would I even be alive there? Or could it be possible that staying in Tokyo with my old teacher would have turned out safer than getting involved with Sherlock Holmes?

What would she say, I wondered, about this predicament I was in? About me being at an indoor pool with my brother and detective flatmate, who was aiming a gun at a bomb that would most certainly kill all of us in the room, including James Moriarty. I had a feeling Miyako wouldn't be able to believe I'd gotten myself mixed up in such things. She'd probably be furious that I was in this situation to begin with, considering she practically forced me to leave Japan for my own safety.

Nothing had happened for what seemed like ages, so I opened my eyes again and saw that no one had moved. John was still back near the wall with lasers dancing on his chest, Moriarty was eyeing Sherlock with a light smile while Sherlock stared right back as he pointed the gun at the bomb. I wanted to shout for someone to do _something_ but I was terrified that any sudden noise would cause Sherlock to pull the trigger.

Then, the introduction to the Bee Gees' song _Staying Alive_ began to play from Moriarty's pocket. All of us looked to him in confusion as he closed his eyes, appearing exasperated.

"D'you mind if I get that?" he asked Sherlock, oddly polite in his tone.

"No, no, please," Sherlock said casually. "You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty took the phone from his pocket and answered it. "Hello? ... Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?"

There was a pause and Moriarty mouthed the word "Sorry" to Sherlock, who sarcastically mouthed, "Oh, it's fine," back. I felt a laugh coming on from the sheer insanity of it. Here we were, in a situation of life and death, and Moriarty was concerned with a phone call.

Moriarty rolled his eyes as he listened to the phone and turned away from us for a moment. Then he whirled back around, his face suddenly full of fury.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls and the surface of the pool's water.

Sherlock and I exchanged a startled look, both of us frowning. There was that other personality of Moriarty's again; the one that was nothing but feral rage. The man's face contorted as he snarled venomously into the phone.

"Say that again," he said, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will _sssssskin_ you."

Sherlock glanced at my brother now and I followed his gaze to see John was bewildered as us.

"Wait," Moriarty ordered and lowered his phone.

He began to walk forward and Sherlock fretfully adjusted his aim at the bomb. I could tell that the detective didn't want to blow us all to bits, but he wasn't about to just let Moriarty get away with killing all of us. If we went down, so did this madman. Moriarty stared down at the floor for a moment, frowning in thought. Finally, he lifted his eyes to Sherlock's.

"Sorry," he said calmly. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh." Sherlock's expression and posture remained surprisingly casual. "Did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty looked down at his phone briefly before turning and walking away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he promised over his shoulder before bringing the phone back to his ear. Into it, he said, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

When he reached the door, he raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, all the lasers focused on us vanished. As Moriarty disappeared through the door, I scanned the gallery but couldn't see any sign of the snipers. Looking round, I saw Sherlock was also staring up at the shadowed area over us, but he didn't seem to have any luck either.

John let out a sigh of relief. "What happened there?" he breathed.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock murmured. "The question is: who?"

* * *

With a delicate hand, I ran my pencil across the paper. Since the latest arc of my manga had been published and now the English translations were being printed, my publishers were willing to let me submit a new project to them. I'd been messing with the various character models in my head: trying various hairstyles, preferred attire, the shapes of their eyes. Over and over when I came back to the main character, he had dark ringlets of hair and angular pale green eyes.

I frowned at the sketch before me, glancing warily at the now finished drawing of Sherlock I kept on my desk. I had lied to both Sherlock and John that I still needed to add some finishing touches and that was why it was still on my desk and not tucked away in my portfolio. Truth was: I didn't know _why_ I kept it there. I simply couldn't bring myself to put it away, and hanging it on my wall seemed... well... obvious.

Curly hair wasn't often used in manga. Eastern art styles favored wild and spiky hair, or long and straight. Or long and spiky. Regardless, _curly_ just wasn't something that happened often. I wasn't certain my publishers would like it, but I just couldn't draw him any other way, it didn't feel right.

Besides, this particular manga was going to be based on all the adventures I had with Sherlock and my brother. Which is why one of the two major side characters was rather short and had light brown hair. His I made a touch spiky since I could get away with it. I hadn't drawn my character yet. I wasn't exactly eager about self-inserts... it made me feel egotistical and vain. I thought about altering her character a bit so that she wasn't exactly _me._

After adding more detail the the current character on my paper, I tried to think of various names for him. I couldn't call him _Sherlock._ I was fairly certain that Sherlock would be quite cross with me if I did. However, I was having the story take place during the 1870s in London, so my options were a bit thin. John's name fit well, as it was one of the most popular names at the time.

"Maybe Arthur," I murmured to myself, tapping the eraser end on the paper near the character's head. "Or Conan. Mm, isn't that Irish?" I pursed my lips.

"Talking to yourself in there?"

I jumped so badly that my pencil fell from my hand and rolled across the desk.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," I breathed.

"What?" the detective called through the door.

"I said _bloody hell_ ," I snapped over my shoulder and shook my head.

"You decent?"

"I'm working," I replied.

"So yes, then."

The door opened and Sherlock stood there in a red dressing gown over his shirt and trousers and a mug in one hand, presumably full of tea. I could see the steam rising from it in curling tendrils.

"We have clients coming today," Sherlock said. "Per John, anyway."

"He's like a proper secretary," I said, turning back to my paper and grabbing my pencil.

"I was hoping you'd join us," Sherlock said.

I frowned and looked back over my shoulder at him. Usually, him and John dealt with the intake of clients. I would sit in on occasion, but it was typically on accident—when I was down for some tea or eating a meal or the like. Sherlock, while involving me in his cases, had never gone out of his way to ask me to sit in on intakes before.

"That's new," I said.

"Not really, you've sat in before," Sherlock reminded me.

"You've never asked me," I pointed out.

"Yes, well, you've been up here a lot since the bomber case," Sherlock said, adverting his gaze. "John's getting worried."

"Starting a new story line takes a lot of time," I replied before narrowing my eyes slightly. "John hasn't complained to me."

"He doesn't want you to get cross with him," Sherlock said with a small shrug, still not looking at me. He instead took a few steps into my room and examined my art wall: the one that bore story boards and panels from _MANA._

"And he told you this, did he?" I raised my brows at the detective.

"He didn't have to, it's clear by his actions and expressions," Sherlock answered swiftly.

"Mm." I spun my chair around to face him, leaning back in it with one leg crossing over the other. "You _could_ just admit you want my company."

"I'm not opposed to your company," Sherlock muttered, looking at me for a brief moment before going back to my drawings. "But I assure you, I'm just looking out for your brother."

I rolled my eyes and swiveled my chair back around to the desk. "Well, I have to think of a name."

"A name?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, possibly the most annoying part of story writing," I murmured. "Benedict might work too, but that name wasn't around then... well, not as much. Ugh."

Sherlock peered over my shoulder and blinked in surprise. "Is that _me?_ "

"No!" I said instantly, covering the character with my hands then sighing and moving them away again. "Yes. Kind of. For my new manga; remember, I talked to you about it."

"So you're trying to name me?" Sherlock laughed a little.

"Well, I can't use Sherlock," I told him.

"Why not?"

I turned my chair to face him again. "Do you _know_ how hard that would be for Japanese people to pronounce? They often swap their R's and L's and you've got both of those side-by-side in your name. John's is easy, at least. I might be able to keep his."

"No, no, no, if you need to change mine, you should change all of them," Sherlock said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because... well, it seems weird doesn't it?" Sherlock said.

It was like giving Sherlock's character anything but curly hair; it was just _off._ I was actually glad that Sherlock could sense that kind of thing too.

"All right, fine, all new names," I said.

"Have you drawn you yet?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not _me,_ " I argued softly. "Just like this—" I gestured to the sketch of the character on my paper, "—isn't _you._ They're... echoes. Shadows. They'll have differences from us. It's dangerous to write characters _completely_ based of people you know."

"Why is that?" Sherlock queried, going and perching on the end of my bed.

"When people you know read your work and realize that the character is them, they tend to get mad," I replied. "Or at least uncomfortable. Seeing yourself through another person's eyes isn't always flattering."

"I dunno..." Sherlock looked down into his tea and shrugged again. "Suppose it depends on the person your seeing through. So... so, when you write—or draw—this thing, this _manga_ , the characters won't be us?"

"Not entirely, no," I said.

"Hm." Sherlock grimaced and sipped his tea.

"What?" I tilted my head at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock said, waving me off. "I just... I suppose I was just curious. I read John's blog and I get to see how he sees me."

"And the first time you did, you got insulted," I reminded him with a small chuckle. "I don't want to go down that road."

"I'd gone weeks without a case, I was... moody."

"You shot holes in the wall."

Sherlock gave a small gesture with his head that seemed to say: _"Well, of course I did, didn't you hear how long I'd gone without a case?"_

"I'll sit in," I said. "But I'm bringing my drawing pad. How many do you have today?"

"Er..." Sherlock screwed up his face as he tried to recall. "Three, plus one request from Lestrade to go down to the morgue later."

"Ah." I pursed my lips.

Talking with Molly ever since we figured out her previous boyfriend was actually Moriarty—AKA the bomber than we'd chased for nearly a week while he kidnapped and blew people up—was still a bit awkward. She was still clearly smitten with Sherlock, and I was finding that fact was starting to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps because of how Sherlock took advantage of her feelings, or... or what?

"So come on," Sherlock said, getting up from my bed and heading for the door. "I put tea on, there's plenty left."

I sighed and glanced back at my drawing. I still had to come up with a name and I supposed hearing a load of strangers' names might inspire me. I grabbed my drawing pad from one of my drawers and followed Sherlock down the stairs.

In the living room, John was sitting at the dining table with his laptop. Sherlock strode over and plopped down in his armchair before picking up a newspaper.

"Ah, she lives," John said, nodding toward me.

"Cute," I replied as I stepped into the kitchen to poor myself a cup of tea. "I hear we have some potentials today."

"Mm," John replied with a nod.

"What are you typing?" Sherlock asked him.

"Blog," John said.

"About?" Sherlock perked a brow.

"Us," John answered.

"You mean me," Sherlock corrected.

John looked up at him, frowning. "Why?"

"Well, you're typing a lot," Sherlock said.

I grinned as I poured my tea. Sherlock certainly required a lot of words to describe him and all the things he did.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock got to his feet. "Right then," he said, walking toward the door. "So, what have we got?"

Over the next several weeks, a number of potential clients came to 221B Baker Street to consult with Sherlock. We had one of the dining chairs face the fireplace where Sherlock and John's usual chairs were. I still hadn't gotten my own seat yet, but I changed position so much, I was starting to think I didn't need one. I would usually perch on the arm of either Sherlock or John's chair while customers spoke to the detective.

"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office," one man said, his expression distraught and desperate.

"Boring," Sherlock had replied, waving him off.

Later, one woman sat down and merely said, "I think my husband might be having an affair."

Sherlock looked her in the eye and replied, "Yes."

One of the stranger ones was a rather creepy-looking middle-aged man with an urn. He sat down and looked at each of us in turn, his eyes wide and resolute.

"She's not my real aunt," he'd insisted, gesturing to the urn. "She's been replaced—I _know_ she has. I _know_ human ash."

"Leave," Sherlock said, pointing to the door.

A businessman came with two aides, all dressed in expensive suits and carrying desperate expressions.

"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files," the businessman pleaded.

Once again, Sherlock used the word, "Boring."

One day, a young man with thick-rimmed glasses came with two companions. They sat at the dining table and the first man leaned forward toward us with an intense expression.

"We have this website," he said. "It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause people miss a lot of the themes."

Sherlock began to look away, bored once again.

"But then all the comic books started coming true," the young man said.

Sherlock looked back instantly. "Oh. Interesting."

A few days later, Sherlock strode into the living room. John sat in his usual chair, typing away on his laptop, as I sketched a manga version of my brother while sitting in Sherlock's seat. The detective peered curiously over John's shoulder and frowned.

"'Geek Interpreter.' What's that?" he asked.

"It's the title," John replied.

"What does it need a title for?" Sherlock said.

John smiled tightly at him as if he couldn't believe what he just heard as the detective straightened and walked away.

I looked across at John and gestured to his laptop. "Email me a copy, will you?"

He raised his brows at me. "For?"

"It's easier to storyboard when I have a reference," I replied.

My new manga was starting to take form, but I still didn't have names or a series title for it yet. Luckily, John's blog titles helped me name each arc. I just had to put a supernatural twist on each case in order to keep it within my genre.

Later that day, we were in the morgue at St Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock peered at a woman's body with his magnifier while John and I waited nearby. It wasn't a particularly complicated case; there hadn't been one of those for some time now. So I had a small notebook with me on which I'd written and scratched out several different names.

"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock abruptly asked.

John frowned at him. "Where d'you think our clients come from?"

"I have a website," Sherlock replied.

I snorted.

Sherlock shot a glare up at me. "Care to comment, Max?"

I shrugged. "Well, your website isn't... It's not really marketing, is it?"

"Marketing?" Sherlock echoed.

I nodded. "You have a brand—your name—and in order to get customers, you need to advertise. Your website... well..."

"You enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," John said. "Nobody's reading your website."

Sherlock straightened up and pouted at him before looking back at the body.

"Right then: dyed blonde hair; no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are." John gestured to the tiny red marks on the woman's body, but Sherlock merely turned and flounced out of the room. My brother glanced at me.

"Think I vexed him?" he asked.

"His pride, at least," I said, following after the detective.

Later that week, Sherlock peeked at John's laptop screen again as he typed away in the kitchen.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, his mouth full of toast.

"What?" John said.

"'The Speckled Blonde?'" Sherlock scoffed.

John pursed his lips as Sherlock stalked away.

On another occasion, two little girls came calling and sat together on one of the dining chairs while Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace.

"They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," one said. "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"

I couldn't help but wonder how the girls got here, who was letting them read John's blog, and where in the world their parents were.

"People don't really go to heaven when they die," Sherlock replied bluntly. "They're taken to a special room and burned."

The girls looked at each other in distress, eyes growing wide.

"Sherlock..." John breathed reprovingly.

The next day, we followed Lestrade across an open field.

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead," the Inspector told us.

"Suspected terrorist bomb," Sherlock said dully. "We do watch the news."

"You said, 'boring' and turned over," John accused.

We came to a halt by an abandoned car that had its boot opened. Inside was a body of a man. Not entirely shocking, I had to admit. So far, I'd seen about ten bodies in the trunks of cars since living with Sherlock.

Lestrade peered at a bag of evidence in his hand. "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat, he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits."

I was once again absorbed in my notebook. I'd gotten the character models down, and even had approval from my publishers on the protagonist's curly hair. But I still couldn't decide on names. I was considering 'Millie' for the female character that was technically me, though I refused to think of her as such. John's character had three options: Jacob, Joshua, and Jasper. Meanwhile, I couldn't decide on any candidates for Sherlock.

"Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport," Lestrade went on. "So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

"Lucky escape," John commented sarcastically.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade prompted Sherlock.

Sherlock had taken up the dead man's hand and was examining it with his magnifier. "Eight so far," he said, straightening up. He paused and looked back at the body with a small frown. "Okay, four ideas."

I laughed a small bit and shook my head. Looking at my paper, I wrote the letter S. I decided each of our names might as well start with the same letter. Glancing up, I saw Sherlock now looking at the bag of evidence. The detective furrowed his brow then looked up into the sky.

"Maybe _two_ ideas," he said as a passenger jet flew overhead.

* * *

Back at the flat, I came trotting down from my room, my mind rattling. I'd decided to keep the name Millie for the girl character, while John's was now Jasper. Yet still I had nothing for Sherlock. Without the protagonist's name, I couldn't even submit the first volume to my publishers. All the cases we were working were small and not particularly complicated—at least not for Sherlock—but all the same, being constantly out and about with the detective and my brother was putting a damper on my work.

"Scott... no, too modern..." I murmured to myself. "Sebastian? Er, no..."

John was at the living room table, typing away again. He's been working more and more on the blog, documenting even the smallest of cases. I was glad he found something to keep him busy.

As he typed, Sherlock came out of the kitchen. He wore heavy protective gloves and safety glasses. In one hand, he carried a blowtorch, and in the other was a glass container of green liquid. I simultaneously was very curious about what he was doing and not wanting to to know anything about it.

The detective peered at John's screen and grimaced.

"No, no, no, don't mention the _unsolved_ ones," he said indignantly.

"People want to know you're human," John argued.

"Why?" Sherlock said.

"'Cause they're interested," John replied.

"No they're not," Sherlock said. " _Why_ are they?"

John smiled at his laptop. "Look at that," he said, gesturing to the screen. "One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock frowned.

"That the counter?" I asked, raising my brows.

The boys seemed to notice me for the first time. John beamed proudly.

"I reset it last night," he explained. "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock—" he turned to look at our flatmate, "—not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."

"Two hundred and forty-three," Sherlock corrected sulkily. He fired up the blow torch and put his safety glasses back down before heading back toward the kitchen.

Sherlock seemed to have some mixed feelings about John's blog. On the one hand, we had more cases than ever, even if they were small. The detective wasn't given a moment to get bored for if there wasn't a case going on, there were people ringing the doorbell to beg him to take on theirs. He was quickly becoming an internet sensation.

However, on the other hand, Sherlock was receiving far more attention than he was used to.

At the end of a case, we walked across the stage of a theatre while police officers milled around nearby.

"So, what's this one?" Sherlock prompted my brother. "'Belly Button Murders?'"

"The Navel Treatment?" John suggested.

"Eurgh!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking disgusted.

I chuckled and shook my head. Sherlock shot a glare my way.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing at all!" I assured with a cheeky grin.

"What, you're-you're _tickled_ that I'm annoyed, is that it?" Sherlock demanded, pouting slightly.

"It's a part of writing," I said. "Er, comedic writing, specifically."

"Sorry, what?" John frowned at me.

I shrugged and gestured to Sherlock. "You take a character that is adverse to certain things—typically harmless things—and put him face-to-face with them. Er, the shy boy being put in front of a mass of people to deliver a speech. A girl who isn't comfortable with mice but is then put in a situation where she had to hold one."

"Yeah, I'm still lost, Maddie," John replied.

I sighed in slight frustration. "Sherlock doesn't like people, but your blog is getting him a lot of attention."

"Speaking of attention," Lestrade said as he approached us, "there's a lot of press outside."

"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon," Lestrade said. "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."

"For God's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed, glaring round at John.

I gripped the yellow scarf around my neck. "Wait, what d'you mean, 'you three?'"

Lestrade clapped a hand on my shoulder. "I mean Sherlock, John, and _you_ , Maxine."

"Why us?" I asked, gesturing between John and myself.

"Well, I _do_ write the blog," John said.

"Okay, well why me?" I folded my arms.

Sherlock chuckled. I shot him a hard look and he shrugged.

"Part of writing, remember?" he said. "You take the socially awkward girl and put her in front of the press."

"You don't want to deal with it anymore than I do!" I retorted. "Can't you just think of a way to get us out of this?"

"Not particularly, no." Sherlock turned and began to head further backstage.

John quirked a small smile at me as we followed after him. I smacked his arm with the back of my hand.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Making us go viral," I replied tightly. "You _know_ I hate strangers."

"They just want some photos, what harm could that be?" John said.

Ahead of us, Sherlock paused by a costume rack just inside a dressing room. He reached inside and snagged a few hats. He tossed a cap at John and me, his expression determined. He was acting like we were trying to avoid being killed, not avoid getting our picture taken.

"John, Max, cover your faces and walk fast," he ordered.

"Still, it's good for the public image, a big case like this," Lestrade commented.

"I'm a private detective," Sherlock replied irritably. "The last thing I need is a public image."

He pushed the third hat over his curly hair. It was a deerstalker and the look oddly worked for him. I looked at the stocking cap he'd given me and let out a long breath through my nose. Sherlock was right; it wasn't a good idea for other people to know our true identities, mainly for future cases. I bent down to tip my hair into the hat in order to hide all of it. My ginger locks weren't exactly inconspicuous. When I straightened up, I covered the lower half of my face with my scarf.

Sherlock nodded at me approvingly as John shoved the baseball cap on his head down a small bit. The three of us headed out the exit door at a swift pace. Lestrade had been right: the press was indeed waiting for us. They instantly began snapping photos and asking questions. So many of them were speaking at once, it was almost impossible to understand what each of them were saying.

The detective ignored all of them. John and I followed his example, though John made sure to smile apologetically at the people we were hurrying by. My heart was pounding, but it wasn't in the exhilarating way that I craved from danger—it was jittery and uncomfortable; anxious. I wanted to yell at the people who were trying to get too close and all the flashing lights of the cameras.

We managed to get by the throng of reporters and into a waiting cab. I practically shoved Sherlock aside as I scooted in after him. John slammed the door behind him as he took his spot on my other side and let out a bewildered breath.

"Wow," he said. "Quite a lot of them."

Sherlock and I shot him scathing looks.

John shrugged and set his eyes on me. "Why're _you_ cross with me?" he said indignantly. "You were teasing Sherlock earlier."

"I was," I admitted. "But that was before I realized this was going to annoy me as well."

Sherlock scoffed irritably before leaning toward the cabbie. "221 Baker Street, please," he said. He then turned toward me. "So it's all right for you to make fun when it doesn't affect you, is that it? Did I get it right?"

I shrugged. "Isn't that how all making fun works?"

Sherlock gave an amending shrug.

"I suppose we'll be getting more business, though," I said.

"You're welcome," John said.

I swatted his arm with the back of my hand, earning me a cry of protest from him.

Later that week, the newspapers carried articles featuring some hastily snapped photos of the three of us. The headlines varied quite a bit. A few that I noticed were: _Sherlock Net 'Tec,', Sherlock, John, and Maxine: blogger detectives, Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon, Trio of Truth-seekers: the self-declared detectives of London._

Glancing through the articles showed me that all the information any of the reporters had on us was from John's blog. They sited it often and enjoyed using direct quotes from it. I peered at one article when it mentioned me—something that didn't happen too often.

 _"'My sister has always been quiet and clever, and living with Sherlock has allowed her to finally start being more open—not only with Sherlock and me, but to just about anyone she meets. She's like a different person when we're on a case: someone who is fierce and ready for anything,' says John Watson in his blog 'The Blind Banker.'_

 _When reading other parts of his blog, we find that John often notes how much Maxine Watson (his sister) has come out of her shell, so to speak, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. 'The Blind Baker' actually notates how she and Holmes pretended to date in order to further their investigation in a case. This writer is quite curious if perhaps there are any true feelings between the two and what it could mean for the trio of crime-fighters."_

I blinked rapidly at the paper and pursed my lips as heat rose in my face. I had read John's take on our second extensive case— _The Blind Banker—_ and he did indeed mention how Sherlock and I acted as a couple but he didn't mention it was to ire Sebastian. Perhaps because Sebastian might read the blog one day and never offer us a case again. (He _had_ paid quite a lot.)

I shouldn't be at all surprised that people would gossip; romance was something the public was always interested in when it came to celebrities. Since John and I obviously couldn't "hook up," it left the ideal pairing to be between Sherlock and me—unless people saw John and Sherlock as a couple (and a surprising amount of people did).

"What?"

Sherlock's voice startled me. I looked up to see he had come in from the kitchen. It was early and he was in a silk robe over his dressing gown. A steaming mug of tea was in each of his hands and he set one on the coffee table in front of me while still staring at my face.

"You look like you might be ill," he said.

"No! No, no, no, not at all," I said quickly, folding the paper in half and already formulating a plan to destroy it at my earliest convenience. "Cheers." I nodded to the tea.

Sherlock shrugged. "John would get one too if he wasn't off in Dublin."

I leaned back in my seat and grinned a little at my flatmate. "Miss him, do you?"

"What would give you that idea?" Sherlock replied before abruptly changing the subject. "What does the latest article say about our lives?" He reached for the paper in my hand.

"Nothing!" I squeaked, jerking it out of his reach.

Sherlock raised his brows at me.

I shoved the paper under my leg on the side that Sherlock wasn't sitting by. "It-it would just annoy you," I stammered, reaching out and taking up my mug of tea. "Y-you know, I really should make some royal milk tea for us one morning. Mm. It's very, er, very soothing."

Sherlock continued to stare at me suspiciously. His pale green eyes were surprisingly piercing; I felt inexplicably vulnerable.

"Any appointments today?" I queried, hoping to distract him as I set my tea back down on the table.

"Not scheduled, but I'm sure some strays will come in from the rain," Sherlock murmured. His eyes flicked between mine and my leg. He seemed to be weighing something in his head. Slowly, he too put his tea on the coffee table.

"Sherlock," I said warningly.

"What?" he replied innocently.

"I _will_ flip you," I told him. "Like an omelet."

Sherlock scoffed, looking a bit insulted. "You would? You _could?_ "

"Of course I _could,_ " I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

We stared at one another for a few more seconds, then Sherlock moved. He lunged across me while keeping one arm up protectively while his other reached for the paper. I quickly grabbed his shielding arm and twisted my body around toward him. Since his torso had practically been in my lap, he lost his balance and slid off the sofa while I got to my feet.

Being careful not to do any actual damage to the detective, I pulled his arm down and to the side so that he flipped over and landed on his back. I kept his arm in my grasp and planted a foot on his shoulder to keep him in place, my hands tight around his wrist to cause pain if necessary.

Sherlock let out a huff, his eyes wide in surprise. He looked up at me with his mouth slightly open before the calmness returned to his face and he relaxed against my hold.

"Must be _quite_ the interesting read for you to go through this much trouble," he said.

"Right now it's just about making a point," I replied with a shrug.

"Well, I've never been on the receiving end of your... Aikido. So I suppose now I know how much of an asset you are on cases," Sherlock grunted.

I grinned and he grinned back, but his smile was much more wicked.

Just as my face fell, he burst upward with surprising speed and strength. I yelped as I was sent falling back onto the sofa, unprepared for his retaliation. He twisted his hand free of my grasp and was back on his feet. I tried to get off the sofa, but before I could move, he sat on me. He _actually_ sat on my lower stomach and thighs to keep me in place.

"Are you joking?" I groaned, trying to push him off.

"Mm, you're almost as comfortable as the sofa," Sherlock noted casually, grabbing my wrists. "Is this paper really worth _that_ much to you?"

 _Yes,_ I thought wearily. I didn't know what Sherlock's reaction would be to that article—what he would say about a proposed romance between us. If he reacted positively, I was certain I'd be too terrified to even be in the same room as him. But if he reacted negatively... if he said there was no way in hell that something of the sort could ever happen...

No matter what, his reaction was _not_ something I wanted to see.

"It-it's embarrassing," I finally admitted. "They... they mentioned me in it. It just... I dunno, it's just really..."

Sherlock's expression changed. He went from being smug to concerned and confused. He tilted his head at me.

"What did they say?" he said, almost in a demanding tone. "Were they insulting?"

"N-no," I stammered. "I... it's just things that..."

Sherlock frowned, his grip on my wrists loosening. "Anything negative would be slander," he said. "You have to know that. You _do_ know that, right?" He was speaking softly now.

My heart hammered in my chest. I felt like I was... floating. _Floating_ despite Sherlock sitting on me. I blinked rapidly and nodded.

"Of course," I whispered. "I mean, no, I don't, but... they just mention that I've, uh, come out of my shell a bit. You know, since... since doing cases with you. I suppose I just never noticed how reclusive I was before."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "There's nothing _wrong_ with enjoying your own company. I think it speaks of strength."

"You... you helped, you know," I murmured to him. "This... me being more comfortable. Not just with other people but with myself."

Sherlock peered at me, his brows raised. "Really? How?"

I laughed and shook my head. "I honestly don't really know. I just... meeting someone so much like myself, I suppose?"

Sherlock smiled, but he was staring off toward the fireplace. He bit his lip and then met my eyes again.

"I've enjoyed meeting someone like myself as well," he murmured.

Something warm swelled inside my chest—elation. I blinked a few times, uncertain of what to say or do about the feelings bouncing around in my head. Then, Sherlock got off of me. He glanced back at me and offered a hand. I narrowed my eyes, suddenly suspicious.

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "You can keep your silly article to yourself. Clearly it means a lot to you."

I hesitated a moment longer before taking his hand and letting him pull me back into a sitting position. I grabbed the paper and crumpled it up into a ball as the detective plopped back down next to me.

"You're... stronger than I expected," Sherlock said. "Your small frame doesn't give any warning to how hard you can... what did you call it? Flip someone like an omelet?"

I shrugged. "People underestimating me is one of my weapons," I replied with a grin.

Sherlock considered me for a moment. "I box," he said. "Well, I did."

"I can tell," I told him. "The stance it quite distinct."

"We could spar at some point, if you like," he said, adverting his gaze to sip his tea. "It _is_ wise to keep in practice."

I let out a small chuckle and shook my head. "Can you imagine the look on John's face if he came home to that?"

"He'd probably be concerned that I'd hurt you," Sherlock mused.

" _You_ hurt _me?_ " I shot him a look. "You punch things. I was trained as an assassin, I'll have you know."

"An assassin who never actually fought anyone until she met me." Sherlock smirked back.

I rolled my eyes and got to my feet, taking the crumpled up ball of newspaper with me. "I fought Miyako. That was probably more than enough," I muttered as I went over to the fireplace.

Inside, there was a modest fire crackling. I knelt down before it and tossed in the paper. Watching it burn, my chest tightened. I missed my old teacher. I couldn't help but wonder how she was... or if she was even still alive. I pursed my lips and glanced back at Sherlock.

"Silas," I said.

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"That's the name of the main character," I said. "In the new manga. Silas. He's a detective that deals with the supernatural beings of the world with his comrades Jasper and Millie."

"All of those name have L or R in them," Sherlock pointed out, half-laughing.

"Yes, but not both and right next to each other," I replied. "It'll be fine. They can handle those ones. There's plenty of anime out there with names containing those letters. Eren Yeager. Ciel Phantomhive."

"Ciel what?" Sherlock laughed.

I waved him off. "Silas Hughes and his sidekicks: Jasper and Millie Wood."

"Fighting... what? Vampires in 19th century London?" Sherlock perked a brow.

"Well, sometimes." I got to my feet and started back toward the couch. Werewolves too. And Fae. And Demons. And—"

"Right, I think I get the picture," Sherlock interjected, holding up a hand to stop me.

I shrugged and plopped down beside him. "What d'you think he'll do next?"

"Who?" Sherlock sipped his tea.

I glanced at him meaningfully, knowing full well he knew who I meant.

Sherlock let out a long breath as he lowered his mug. "Honestly? No idea. That makes it exciting, don't you think?" He grinned at me.

I couldn't help but grin back.


	28. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 2

_Maxine_

Coming down the steps from my room, I rifled through several sheets of paper, trying to decide on the clothing models I'd drawn out. Despite it being rather unrealistic, anime often had people wearing the same outfits over and over to make them distinctive. I still tried to add some realism to it and keep it to just reoccurring jackets and hats. Sometimes scarves.

As I headed into the kitchen for some tea, I nearly ran smack into Mrs. Hudson.

"Ooh!" my landlady yelped. "So sorry, Maxine, didn't see you there!"

"I'm the one with my nose in papers," I said.

Lowering them, I saw that Mrs. Hudson seemed to be in the middle of tidying. The kitchen was in disarray thanks to Sherlock and his experiments. The less clients he had, the more weird things were scattered around the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson, you know you don't have to clean up after him," I told her, putting my papers on a clean spot on the table. "I'll make him do it tomorrow."

"Oh, it's really no trouble," Mrs. Hudson said, waving me off. Though, as she looked around, she let out a tut of exasperation. "He really is a messy thing, isn't he?"

I grinned a little and shrugged. "Suppose so. I'd assume his mind looks something like this too—all filled with bits and bobs of random facts and knowledge."

"I'd like to think he keeps his thoughts more organized than this," Mrs. Hudson sighed. She spotted my drawings. "Oh! Those are lovely! Your next project?"

"Er, yeah." I looked down at the papers. I had four of them, and on each paper was a rough sketch of all three major characters. Their outfits varied between the papers and all of them had numbers by them. "I've got the facial structure down, as well as the hairstyles, but I can't seem to figure out the attire."

Mrs. Hudson leaned over the papers and rifled through them. "This is set in the 19th century?"

I nodded.

"Is this one a girl?" Mrs. Hudson pointed at Millie on a few of the pages.

"Yes, that's Millie Wood," I told her.

"Nice touch with the hair," Mrs. Hudson noted. "Is she posing as a man, then?"

"Yeah, how'd you figure?" I queried.

"Well, she's in the 19th century," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Can't very well go about in pants. Think of the children!"

We laughed together and Mrs. Hudson continued to compare the papers.

"Mm, I think 3, 8, and 9." My landlady pointed each of the drawings out and carefully put the papers back together before handing them back to me with a smile.

I checked her answers again and frowned with consideration. I found that I was actually quite satisfied with it. These three outfits were different enough from one another while still following similar themes.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," I told her, beaming.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled and waved me off. "Anything to see that smile of yours, Maxine. Your whole face lights up! So, is this newest _manga_ about the three of you?" She raised her brows. "I notice some resemblance in the characters!"

"Sort of, but not entirely," I replied. "I have to keep a few key personality attributes to make the arcs make sense with the cases we've done. But I also need to change some others to keep audiences more interested—well, _my_ audience, anyway. Which are mainly Japanese teens."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Well, then! Let me know when they get this one translated. I've quite enjoyed _MANA_ so far."

I had turned and placed my papers on the counter in order to get started on the tea, but when she said that, I spun to face her again.

"You... you're reading _MANA_?" I breathed.

"Of course!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "Took me some getting used to, reading backwards, but the art is quite fetching and I'm rather fond to Arthus! Or should I say Canine? And his big dog, of course."

I rubbed my brow and laughed nervously. Arthus was the lawful-good character that went by Canine on account of his giant dog companion and his sword that could literally bite people. It made sense why Mrs. Hudson liked him; he was chivalrous and mild-mannered opposed to his rambunctious older brother, Kazros.

A bashful flush began to tinge my cheeks. I didn't expect anyone I _knew_ to read my manga. Even John hadn't read more than the first volume. It didn't bother me that they hadn't; in fact, I was a bit relieved. The events that happened in my stories and the things that the characters did were ludicrously far from how I acted as a person. I didn't want people to think of me differently when reading my manga.

"He does live, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice suddenly stern. "He's far too kind of a boy to go getting killed like Ridley!"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I haven't decided?"

"Why do you say that like a question?" Mrs. Hudson demanded. She shook her head and held up her hands. "Never mind! I don't want to know, it'll just spoil it."

She went over to the fridge, grabbing a cart of milk from the table as she went. When she pulled open the door, she instantly recoiled at the stench coming from inside.

"Er, yeah, dunno what he's got growing in there, but it's been getting rather _ripe_ the past few days," I said with an apologetic grimace.

"Honestly, this is for _food!_ " Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

Pulling open the salad crisper, she reached into the drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag from it. She held it up and peered at the contents. At first, they looked like strange little sausages, but then it became disturbingly clear exactly what they were.

"Ooh dear!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "Thumbs!"

"Thought he was on toes this week," I mused with a frown.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the bag back into the salad crisper and quickly shoved it shut. With a disgusted sigh, she straightened and looked at me.

"How do you do it?" she breathed.

"Do what?" I was grabbing the kettle and filling it with water.

"Put up with him—with _this_ —" she gestured at the messy kitchen and fridge, "—all the time and still enjoy his company so much?"

"I don't _always_ enjoy his company," I told her.

Mrs. Hudson gave me a knowing look. "Come now, Maxine, no one can light you up like he can."

Before I could ask my landlady what she was implying, someone burst into the room from the landing. It was an overweight man with dark hair. Sweat stains soaked the pits of his arms and middle of his chest. His eyes were wide and bewildered as he gasped for breath.

"The door was..." he rasped. "The door was..."

Then he collapsed to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson and I stared in shock for a moment before the former called up the stairs.

"Boys! You've got another one!" she said.

I put the kettle on the burner and turned it on before turning to check on the man. I could still see the rise and fall of his back as he breathed, so there was no immediate threat. He appeared to have ran here from somewhere far off. Mrs. Hudson leaned over the man worriedly.

"Ooh!" she said. "What do you think he was running from?"

"Hopefully something interesting," I said with a small smile.

The man's name turned out to be Phil. Once he regained consciousness, Sherlock, John, and I had him seated in a dining chair facing the fireplace. John sat in the sofa behind him, his elbows on his legs as he leaned on them. Sherlock paced about the living room since I had commandeered his armchair. I sat sideways in it, my knees propped up on the armrest with my drawing pad placed on my thighs.

"Tell us from the start," Sherlock ordered. " _Don't_ be boring."

Phil took a deep breath and nodded. "Well, my car broke down out on a country road. No-one hardly drives it, see, and I'd been stuck there for fifteen minutes trying to get the bloody thing to go. There was a field beside me—stretched down to a river. When I got out of my car, I saw a man down by it. He was wearing this red jacket, and I could tell he was facing away from the road..."

Taking another breath, though this one more shaky, Phil clenched and unclenched his hands. His eyes were wide and seemed traumatized. I kept glancing from him to my paper as I swiftly sketched an manga-style equivalent of him to use later in the new series. Oddly enough, drawing helped me focus more on what was being said around me. It was hard to explain, but it seemed to sharpen my senses.

"I tried to start my car again, and all it did was backfire. Scared me really bad, too. And-and when I looked back to the field..." Phil shook his head. "I saw the man was lying down in the grass. I got out of my car and called out to him to ask if he was all right, but he didn't respond. So I-I went down to check on him, of course, but no matter how much I called out, he just laid there."

Phil closed his eyes for a moment, biting his lip. I tilted my head toward him and saw the look of growing impatience on Sherlock's face.

"Dead?" I guessed.

Phil winced and nodded, looking horrified. John gave me a stern look from behind the man and I raised a hand in exasperation.

"Sorry, not comforting enough?" I said. "What _should_ I have gone with?"

"Maybe: ' _It's all right, take your time?_ '" John suggested.

"No, I like Max's way better," Sherlock said. "So. He was dead. How?"

Phil, looking properly anxious now, rubbed his hands on his pants. "He was on his back and there was-there was a _massive_ amount of blood on the back of his head... I think-I think he'd been shot! I-I phoned the police right away and they seemed baffled. I never heard a gunshot, you see. So-so I came here, because you take these kinds of cases right? You can figure it out!"

Sherlock nodded, but he was grimacing a bit. As strange as the situation sounded, it seemed he found this to be a bit too... well, boring. Man dies from apparent gunshot when there was no gunfire heard. But that was just the thing: it was an _apparent_ gunshot wound.

"Very well, I'll go have a look," Sherlock said, though he looked a bit annoyed about it.

"You don't seem keen on this one," I said.

"It's weird, but it's not baffling," Sherlock replied. "Not leaving the flat for it, though."

I blinked. "What? But you just said that you would go have a look."

"Oh, I'm going to," Sherlock assured. "Just not in person."

* * *

 _John_

The taxi pulled up next to the field and I took a moment to simply admire the view. The sky was mostly clear today and the river down below gurgled along pleasantly. Then, as my eyes scanned further up the bank, I saw the crime scene sprawled out with police officers walking about and taking photos.

Sherlock had refused to come to the crime scene in person, and instead pushed a laptop in my hand and sent me off. I pestered Maxine to come with me, but she insisted she wasn't finished drawing Phil, who looked startled and flattered at the concept. So here I was, alone, expected to show everything to Sherlock via video chat.

Lestrade had told me the man in charge of this case was Detective Inspector Carter and most likely be the man who I'd be talking to. So, once I was approached by two of the officers, I informed them of who I intended to speak to.

Carter came along shortly afterward. He was an older man with a thinning hairline wearing a suit with a long jacket over it, much like what Lestrade would wear. He was tall and his facial features were stern, like that of a strict teacher. I got out of the car to introduce myself, the laptop tucked under my left arm.

"Sherlock Holmes," Carter greeted.

"John Watson," I corrected him, extending my hand and shaking the Inspector's. "Are you set up for Wi-Fi?"

After a few moments, I connected the video chat with Sherlock's laptop back home. He'd set it up on kitchen table and was currently making tea. When he came on screen properly, I blinked and nearly dropped the computer.

"What— what are you wearing?" I stammered.

Sherlock glanced down at himself. From what I could see, he was bare-chested and there was only a white sheet wrapped around him like a toga.

"I took a bath," he explained casually.

"You're—" I had to cut off for a moment to take a tight breath. I clenched my jaw and leaned in toward the camera to speak quieter. "You're _naked_ in the flat right now? While my _sister's_ home?!"

"I'm not _naked,_ John. Besides, she doesn't mind," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Neither does Phil."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," I groaned, shaking my head.

"It's not like I haven't seen an arse before, John!" I heard Maxine call from off screen.

I started turning red in the face, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Tell me she didn't see _your_ ass," I whispered.

"Heard that!" Maxine said.

Sherlock smirked to the side, most likely at my sister. Looking back at the camera—at me—he said, "No, she hasn't seen _my_ ass. It's not my fault you called before I was done."

I shook my head and began heading down the field. "Let's just get this done, shall we? You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?"

Sherlock yawned as he turned and picked up his mug of tea. "It's okay, I'm fine," he assured.

I rolled my eyes as Sherlock picked up the laptop and brought it to the living room. He set it down on the coffee table and sat in his usual chair. Maxine came into view and sat on the floor in front of the laptop, allowing herself full view of the screen while Sherlock looked over her head. I did my best not to think about how close my sister was to the detective's knees.

"Now, show me to the stream," Sherlock instructed.

"I didn't really mean for you," I told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look, this is a six," he said.

The doorbell rang in the flat. Maxine turned her head, frowning a bit and started to get up, but Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"More important things," he said, gesturing to the screen. Looking back at the camera, he went on. "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass."

I sighed and pointed the camera on the laptop toward the grass at the stream's edge before squatting down. "When did we agree that?" I asked as I ran the laptop along to the side.

"We agreed it yesterday. Stop!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. "Closer."

Ignoring Sherlock's instructions, I turned the laptop back around so I could glare into the camera. "I wasn't even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin."

"Well, it's hardly _my_ fault you weren't listening," Sherlock replied.

The doorbell rang again, and this time Sherlock looked in the direction of the stairs.

"SHUT UP!" he bellowed, making Maxine jump.

"D'you just carry on talking when I'm away?" I asked him, finding his reactions to the doorbell perfectly normal. "What about Maddie? Did the two of you talk about this?"

"I don't recall," Maxine said. "I was probably up in my studio, drawing."

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff of breath. "Obviously, we need to work on some communication skills."

"Well, yes!" Maxine agreed, looking back at him.

"You two need to learn to listen when I speak," Sherlock went on. "I rarely enjoy repeating myself, you see."

Maxine buried her head in her hands briefly before looking back at the camera. "John, just show him the bloody grass."

"Mm, no, not the grass." Sherlock gestured to the screen. "Show me the car that backfired."

Sighing, I got back to my feet and headed over toward the car. Phil's vehicle remained up on the road. Once I reached it, I angled the camera toward it.

"It's there," I said.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" Sherlock queried.

I turned the camera back toward myself; it was easier to talk to him face to face—well, as face to face as we could get with this.

"Yeah," I said. "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

Sherlock ran a finger over his upper lip as he thought. Maxine glanced back at him with a perked brow. He met her gaze, and I swore it was like they were having some kind of telepathic conversation. As her expression changed, his would shift in response.

"What _bird_ is that big?" Sherlock suddenly asked her.

"Nothing in this part of the country," Maxine admitted with a sigh. "It was just a thought."

"What-what are you two doing?" I blurted.

They both looked back at the camera.

"Theorizing," Maxine replied simply.

"How... how d'you two do that with just making faces?" I asked, my brows furrowed in bewilderment.

"I dunno, it's kind of like a natural learned sign language?" Maxine shrugged.

I was heading back toward the road still as Carter approached me, following from behind so he could look at the screen.

"You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," he said.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, forget him. He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

Carter leaned closer to the camera. " _I_ think he's a suspect!"

Sherlock leaned forward, his face now tightening in anger. Maxine had to shrink down to allow him to get closer to the camera.

"You're gonna squish me," she complained.

Sherlock ignored her. "Pass me over."

I exhaled sharply through my nose, still telling myself not to think about how Maxine was now even _closer_ to Sherlock's—No. Just, no.

"All right, but there's a Mute button and I _will_ use it," I threatened.

Tilting the camera up toward Carter from my chest level, I heard Sherlock scoff irritably.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here," he said.

I shook my head and offered the laptop fully to Carter. "Okay, just take it, take it."

The Inspector took it in his hands and held it level with his face. He looked both disgruntled and surprised when he got a clear view of Sherlock and my sister, and the former's attire (and lack thereof).

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective?" Sherlock said in a swift and cutting tone. "Fair play?"

"He's trying to be clever," Carter argued. "It's over-confidence."

Maxine laughed and Carter's expression fell into even more irritation.

"Sorry, sorry," Maxine said. "I thought... I thought you were joking."

"Why would I joke about murder?" Carter snapped.

"To lighten the mood? I heard it's a good coping mechanism," Maxine replied sincerely.

"Don't blame her for thinking it was an attempt at humor," Sherlock said. "Did you _see_ him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy—and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!"

I saw Sherlock turn to toward where my usual chair was (which was off camera) and shake his head.

"Don't worry—this is just stupid," he said.

Phil's voice came through the speakers. "What did you say? Heart _what_?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned back to the camera. "Go to the stream."

"What's in the stream?" Carter asked.

"Go and see," Sherlock said.

Carter handed the laptop back to me and began heading across the field again, looking agitated. Facing the camera again, I was about to yell at Sherlock for being so callous about our client when he was in the same room, but Mrs. Hudson's voice spoke before I could.

"Sherlock! You weren't answering your doorbell!" she said, somewhere off camera.

Sherlock and Maxine both looked in the direction of the front door, seeming surprised.

"His room's through the back," a man's voice I didn't recognize said. "Get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. You're coming with us," the man's voice said. "You too, Ms. Watson."

"Uh-what? Why?" Maxine looked uncomfortable.

"What?" I leaned closer to the screen. "What's going on? Maddie? What's happening, Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock's hand suddenly whipped out and closed the laptop lid. Our video call was cut and the connection dropped. I stared at the black screen, wide-eyed.

"I've lost them," I breathed, poking the keyboard frantically. "I don't know what..."

My heart was beginning to hammer in my ears. Who had just arrived at our flat? Who was taking Sherlock and Maxine? I couldn't help but remember the truth I discovered about my sister's stay in Japan. What if they were connected to the Yakuza? The man sounded British, but...

"Doctor Watson?"

I turned to see one of the police officers trotting toward me. He had a phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah," I said.

"It's for you," the officer said.

A small jolt of hope struck me. Perhaps it was Sherlock or Maxine—though I wasn't sure why they didn't just phone my mobile.

"Okay, thanks," I said, holding out my hand for the phone as I looked back at the black screen.

"Uh, no, sir." The officer shifted nervously. "The helicopter."

Startled, I looked up just as the beating sound of an approaching helicopter hit my ears. Looking over, I saw one was touching down at the edge of the river, sleek and black. I sighed and closed my laptop's lid. Well, that narrowed it down.

"Mycroft could at least _call_ first," I breathed before heading down the field.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Two men in suits had arrived in our flat, both looking far too official for just any ordinary clients. Not to mention, they had just ordered Sherlock and me to go with them. I'd heard the man giving the orders be called Plummer. He stared at Sherlock as his colleague returned with a set of clothes and shoes.

"Please, Mr. Holmes," Plummer said. "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

"Sherlock...?" I said slowly.

We hadn't moved from our positions: Sherlock in his chair and me sitting by his legs on the floor. My own legs were stretched beneath the coffee table. It wasn't exactly a good spot to just leap up from, and my dagger was upstairs.

Glancing back at the detective, I saw Sherlock was roving his eyes over the man. I wanted to know if we were in danger or not—if I needed to try and sneakily get up in order to take down one of the men while Sherlock handled the other. It could be that this was Moriarty's next game. Perhaps this time he'd find a more definite way to kill us without him being caught in the explosion.

After a moment, Sherlock smiled.

"Oh, I know _exactly_ where we're going," he said.

Comforted by his confidence, I relaxed a bit, but I still cast a wary look back toward the men.

"Could clue me in," I murmured.

"And ruin the surprise?" Sherlock chuckled.

I groaned and carefully got to my feet. The men stood between me and the way to both the door out of the flat and the stairs up to my room. I bit my lip, trying to calculate like Sherlock did. Well, if he wasn't concerned, then it wasn't Moriarty. That left only one other culprit with the kind of pull to send men in suits to collect us.

"Why can't your brother just _call_ or _text_ like a normal person?" I asked, glancing back at Sherlock.

"He loves dramatics," Sherlock answered.

"Mr. Holmes, please, your clothes," Plummer pressed.

"Mm, no." Sherlock shook his head.

"Excuse me?" Plummer raised his brows.

"I was in the middle of a case, and you saw fit to come and interrupt it," Sherlock said. "I'm not some tool to be picked off a shelf when needed."

"Y'know, I dunno where we're going, but I'm still in my pajamas?" I said, gesturing down to my fuzzy owl-patterned pants and too-big T-shirt. "If I could just get something more suitable in my room..."

As I began to walk toward the kitchen, Plummer's companion darted in my path and grabbed my arm. I blinked, shocked as his speed and deftness.

"You're fine," Plummer said. Looking back to Sherlock, he gave him an exasperated stare. "Please, Mr. Holmes. Your trousers at least."

I gave an experimental tug at my arm to see how strong the man's grip was. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, but the moment I began to pull away, he gave me a warning look and shook his head slightly. I swallowed and adverted my gaze.

"I can walk without help," I muttered.

"We know your reputation, Ms. Watson," the man holding me said calmly.

I sighed in defeat while Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, if we're going, then let's go," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "Mrs. Hudson, if you could see Phil gets refreshments before he leaves..."

Mrs. Hudson had been staring in astonishment this entire time, her jaw slack. She nodded hastily at Sherlock's request. She gave me a worried look and I waved her off in a gesture that told her I would be fine.

Sherlock, still in his sheet, headed to the door with a confident swagger. Plummer grabbed the clothes and looked like he was going to scream or punch the detective—or both. Gripping Sherlock's shoulder, he led him out of the flat and to the landing. I was pulled along after them.

"Uh, my slippers, at least?" I said weakly.

The man pulling me opted to pick me up like a child in his arms instead. I scowled at my socked feet as we stepped outside. However, we were only in the sunlight long enough to cross the sidewalk and get inside a fancy black car.

Once placed inside, I scooted across to the other end of the seat and tried to open the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. Sherlock slid in after me and Plummer closed the door a bit harder than necessary. His companion got in the driver's seat while Plummer took the passenger's side.

As the car pulled away, Sherlock and I glanced at one another. At first, we were both serious-faced and communicating that neither of us enjoyed this situation. However, we then both looked over each other's attire. In all honesty, when Sherlock came out of his room in nothing but a sheet, I had choked on my tea.

John had left to go to the crime scene, and Sherlock announced that he was going to take a quick bath. It left me to attempt to keep Phil entertained, as a good host should, but it had been rather awkward.

"So why are you drawing me?" Phil had asked, looking over at me with a mild sense of hope in his eyes.

"Er..." I remembered glancing warily down at his manga-esc sketch on my drawing pad. "I... well, I draw manga."

"Manga?" Phil frowned at me.

I shrugged. "Eastern-style comics. My newest series is roughly based on the cases that my brother and I work with Sherlock. I like to be accurate. You're name will be changed of course! Nothing... privacy-breaching or anything."

"Oh." Phil smiled a bit at that point. "Sounds... lovely."

I had showed him the drawing and he seemed pleased with it. The nice thing about manga styled drawing was that it tended to make things a lot cuter and more attractive than they were: larger, more youthful eyes, more flattering shapes and no blemishes. At least, that's how my style worked. There were plenty of artists out there that loved putting all the nitty and gritty details into things.

John ended up texting me when he reached the crime scene. Sherlock was still in the tub, so I set up the laptop in the kitchen in order to give him more time. Yet by the time I finished getting everything booted up, he still wasn't out. I went to the bathroom door and knocked on it.

"Mm?" Sherlock's voice had sounded relaxed like he had been sleeping.

"John's ready for us," I told him.

"Oh."

I could hear water splashing through the door and wet feet slapping on the tile. The door abruptly opened and I almost gave a yelp of surprise, half-expecting the detective to be nude from how fast he'd gotten out. When I took a step back and regained my senses, I saw Sherlock had a towel around his waste and he walked, still dripping, across the kitchen and into his bedroom without another word.

Sighing, I had gone into the steam-filled bathroom and let out the water in the tub, which Sherlock had neglected to do in his haste. I went back to the kitchen and grabbed the tea I'd just made and poured three mugs. Leaving Sherlock's near the laptop, I walked back out into the living room and gave Phil one.

"Cheers," he said with a nervous nod.

I went back to John's chair and plopped down. Grabbing my drawing pad in one hand and my mug in the other, I sipped my tea while eyeing the sketch.

Sherlock's door opened again and he came out, dryer now but still not dressed.

I sputtered and hastily set down my mug as I went into a coughing fit.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking my way as he leaned over the laptop, one hand clutching the sheet together.

"What're you wearing?" I managed to rasp, thumping my chest with my fist to try and ease the pain.

"There's hardly time to get dressed," Sherlock said. "And the towel was wet. I'd freeze if I stayed in that."

Despite it being so bizarre at first, after he said that I realized how perfectly normal this kind of thing was for Sherlock. His priorities were set in the case—in anything that could get him mind to work and not be bored. Keeping up with social norms or even what most would consider common curtesy was something that he found as a waste of time.

However, it had led to him being the back of a mysterious black car in nothing but a sheet with me next to him in my pajamas. I put a hand on my mouth as a fit of giggles began to threaten me. Sherlock bit his lip and looked out the window, clearly trying not to smile.

"D'you think whoever our new client is will like owls?" I asked in a murmur, gesturing to my pajama pants.

Sherlock gave a tiny laugh that he was trying to suppress. "I think she prefers corgis."

I blinked and looked at him in the eye. "No."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock replied.

We looked over each other one more time, then burst out laughing.


	29. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 3

_Maxine_

I'd never actually been to Buckingham Palace. It was strange, considering I lived in or around London for most of my life. The opportunity simply never arose. The large, ornate room that Sherlock and I sat in amazed me.

The carpet was a rose-pink that was just a soft enough shade that it didn't hurt to look at. The sofa we were on faced a table where another sofa sat on its other side. The furniture was mostly white with gold trimmings. Plush pillows were on each of the sofas and I held one of the red ones in my lap. Beneath the table was what resembled an over-sized doily; it added to the exaggerated elegance in the room.

"D'you think we could see them?" I murmured.

Sherlock frowned over at me. "See what?"

"The dogs, of course," I whispered. "She has an army of corgis—an _army._ "

"You like dogs?" Sherlock chuckled.

"Of course I like dogs, who doesn't like dogs?" I replied. "They're always happy to see you, love you unconditionally, and are clumsy in the best ways."

"Clumsy in the best ways?" Sherlock echoed, smiling at me.

"Yeah," I said. "You can't tell me that it doesn't warm your heart a little to see a puppy trying his best to pick up a ball, but he keeps pushing it with his paw and it rolls off? Yet he keeps trying to get it with all that enthusiasm. We could learn a lot from dogs."

Sherlock shook his head, laughing softly.

"What?" I demanded.

"You're technically a trained assassin who loves danger and can't get enough of chasing killers, yet here you are gushing on about _puppies_ ," Sherlock said.

Footsteps echoed toward us and we both looked down the hall to see John standing in the doorway to the room. He held out his hands in a bewildered gesture, eyes darting between us. Sherlock shrugged and glanced away, like this was just an average day. I beckoned my brother over with a grin. John sighed and came to sit on Sherlock's other side, closest to the door.

For a moment, John stared ahead blankly and I could see his expression slowly changing into one chewing back a giggle. He leaned back and peered at Sherlock's sheet. After a glance at the detective's backside and the looking at the clothes that were sitting on the table, he folded his hands together between his knees.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Okay," John said.

The three of us sat quietly for a moment. Sherlock then turned to look at John just as my brother was turning to look at him. Their eyes met and they promptly burst out into laughter. Caught up in their hysterics, I too began to giggle. I put my head in the red pillow for a moment, trying to calm myself. At least John was over the anger at Sherlock for his strange attire and saw the true humor in it.

"At Buckingham Palace, fine," John said, still partially laughing. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock chuckled again, leaning back in the sofa.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asked. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, still smiling. "Max is hoping to see the corgis."

"Oh, she would." John leaned forward to look across to me. "An ashtray is a lot easier to nick than a whole dog."

"I mean, they're small...ish," I said slowly. "Maybe we could say I'm pregnant and whisk one away in my..." I looked down at my over-sized shirt. "Well, hopefully it's claws are trimmed."

John laughed. Looking around the room again, he said, "Here to see the Queen?"

At that moment, Mycroft walked into the room. Spotting him, Sherlock nodded in his direction.

"Oh, apparently yes," he said.

The three of us cracked up again.

Mycroft looked us over in exasperation as we continued to giggle. "Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" he asked.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, Maddie draws pictures about it, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope," John said.

Sherlock looked up as Mycroft walked fully into the room. All the humor slid away from the detective's face when he stared upon his brother.

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft perked a lazy brow. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock agreed.

John and I exchanged a startled look.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft said.

He bent down and picked up the clothes and shoes from the table. Turning to offer them to his little brother, Mycroft's expression grew stern. Sherlock stared back at him uninterestedly.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation," Mycroft said. "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

"What for?" Sherlock asked with a shrug.

"Your client," Mycroft said.

"And my client is?" Sherlock stood up, still clinging the sheet around his body.

"Illustrious..."

We turned to see a man walking into the room. He was tall, pale, and had a bit of blond hair left on his head. He wore a black suit not unlike Mycroft's and his posture was practiced and proper.

"...in the extreme," he said. "And remaining—I have to inform you—completely anonymous."

John stood up respectfully as the man approached up. My brother glanced at me and gestured for me to do the same. I frowned and shrugged in a gesture that said: _Why should I?_

"He's an equerry," John whispered intently.

"How can you tell?" I asked softly.

"Will you just get up?" John hissed the words through his teeth and gestured with his hand again.

I sighed and put the red pillow aside to get on my feet. I gave the equerry a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod.

The equerry grinned a little in amusement before turning to Mycroft.

"Mycroft!" he greeted enthusiastically.

"Harry," Mycroft said, shaking his hand and smiling. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?"

"Full-time occupation, I imagine," Harry replied.

Sherlock scowled. Oddly, in that moment, I felt an urge to reach out to him; to touch his shoulder in reassurance. So many people could do nothing but focus on all of the detective's negatives when he had done so much for so many people. He'd told John not to call him a hero, but regardless of that statement, Sherlock played that role more times than I could count.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson," Harry said, moving over to my brother, "formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes." John shook his hand, looking only slightly surprised by the equerry's knowledge.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog," Harry told him.

 _Now_ John was startled. "Your employer?"

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch." Harry smiled before turning his attention to me. "And Miss Maxine Watson. Truly, a most talented artist. I've taken a liking to your series, _MANA._ "

"You have?" I blinked. This man hardly looked the type to enjoy manga.

"I was merely curious at first, but it had a surprising pull," Harry said. "Arthus—or Canine—is my favorite." He winked. "I'm fond of dogs myself and the idea of a biting sword is rather intriguing."

I looked him over for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He extended a hand and I went to shake it, but instead he gripped my fingers and kissed my knuckles gently. I gave him an awkward nod as I took my hand back and subtly wiped it on my pants when he looked away. Was it just how everyone in Mycroft's circle of powerful and rich associates greeted women? It was bizarre and felt outdated.

Approaching Sherlock, Harry cleared his throat was a strangely smug air and looked him over. "And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

Harry was about an inch or two taller than Sherlock. The detective looked him over before glancing in my direction. His eyes flicked down toward my hand and his expression went a bit sour.

"I take the precaution of a good coat and two short friends," Sherlock replied, his voice tight.

I heard a soft breath of amusement from Mycroft and turned to see that he was looking at his brother's actions with delight. Sherlock met his eyes and abruptly walked over to him, forcing John and me to back up.

"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients," the detective snapped. "I'm used to a mystery at _one_ end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He looked round to the equerry. "Good morning."

Sherlock began to walk out of the room, but Mycroft stepped onto the trailing edge of his sheet. The detective kept moving forward while pulling the sheet off his body, but stopped and gripped it around his waist before he was entirely naked. He tugged at it, looking furious.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft said. "Grow up."

Sherlock didn't bother looking back at him. "Get off my sheet!" he snarled through gritted teeth.

"Or what?" Mycroft replied coolly.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock said.

"I'll let you." Mycroft's expression was resolute.

"Boys, please." John was casting anxious looks at me. "Not here."

Scared that Sherlock might actually end up walking off due to his stubbornness, I went around John to stand in front of the detective. He met my eyes and his expression faltered somewhat as he glanced down at his nearly-nude appearance.

I'd never actually seen Sherlock without a shirt on, and I was surprised by how much tone there was in his slim form. Of course, he had to keep physically fit for all the work he did. His offer to spar floated to the forefront of my mind and my heart began to thud faster. I bit my lip at the sensation, wondering what might be wrong with me.

"Aren't you the _least_ bit curious?" I asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a long exhale. His eyes darted to the side, but he didn't turn fully to look back at Mycroft. He was almost incandescent with rage.

"Who. Is. My. _Client?_ " he demanded.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft replied tightly. "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now _for God's sake..._ " He broke off and glanced at the equerry briefly as he got his anger under control before looking back at his brother. "...put your clothes on!"

Sherlock closed his eyes furiously, then pulled in a sharp breath.

"As flattering as the sheet is, I think John might have an aneurysm if you walk out and I see everything you have to offer," I said softly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared at me for a moment before an amused grin hinted at his lips. He sighed and backed up, gathering the sheet around himself as he went and grabbed his clothes.

"There's a small room over here, Mr. Holmes," Harry said, gesturing for the detective to follow him.

As Sherlock and Harry left, John and I sat down on the couch again. Mycroft sat across from us, shaking his head.

"Honestly," he muttered. "Is he like this at home?"

"Well, he's usually clothed," John said.

Mycroft gave a small chuckle, then looked at us. "Some interesting articles have been cropping up about you three," he said.

"Interesting?" John echoed.

Mycroft grinned. I abruptly remembered the one saying that Sherlock and I might be romantically involved and wished I had my scarf to fiddle with.

"Oh, yes, a lot of people are curious as to how the three of you live your day-to-day lives when not solving cases," Mycroft said. "John, I understand that you've dated in the past?"

"Er, yes," John replied. "Sarah. We still see each other on and off."

"What about you, Maxine?" Mycroft looked at me. "Anyone caught your eye?"

"I've really no time to date," I said as smoothly as I could.

"Oh, but love has mysterious ways of working," Mycroft said. "People are quite flexible when they're smitten."

"I, er, don't really have anything like that..." I said nervously.

"So you're single, then?" Mycroft said.

"No, she's not."

I blinked and turned to see Sherlock returning. He was clothed now and Harry was just behind him with a tray laden with a tea set.

"She's married to her work, just like me," Sherlock said firmly as he came to sit on my other side.

Mycroft smiled at his little brother, but there was something devious in his eyes. Sherlock held his gaze evenly with a stern expression. The detective seemed to be saying, _"You'll regret it if you keep on this subject."_

Harry set the tea down on the table and went over to sit on the same couch as Mycroft. Electing to stop prying into my love life, Mycroft leaned forward and picked up the kettle. Following the old-fashioned superstition that only one person in the household—usually the mother—should pour tea, he looked at the equerry and said, "I'll be mother."

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock said pointedly.

Mycroft glowered at him, his previous mischievous demeanor evaporating as he put the kettle back down after pouring five cups of tea.

Clearing my throat awkwardly, I leaned forward and took a cup. I was feeling a bit self-conscious now that I was the most ridiculous one dressed. When Sherlock had been in nothing but a sheet, me being in pajamas seemed all well and good in comparison. Now I just looked silly.

"My employer has a problem," Harry said to Sherlock.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature," Mycroft explained, "and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" Harry queried.

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy," Sherlock replied.

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John said, frowning.

"Naturally not," Mycroft said. "They all spy on people for money."

John seemed to be doing his best not to grin in amusement.

"I do think we have a timetable," Harry said.

"Yes, of course. Um..." Mycroft opened his briefcase and took out a glossy photograph. He handed it to Sherlock, and John and I peered over his shoulders to look at it.

It was a photo of a rather beautiful woman with dark hair carefully pulled back in an elegant bun. Her dark eyes were framed with artfully-done makeup, and her lips were painted a deep red. Her skin looked flawless—a canvas of ivory dotted with rosy cheeks. She was either in her late twenties or early thirties.

"What do you know about this woman?" Mycroft asked.

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock answered, looking at the photo thoughtfully.

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft said. "She's been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"Wow." I blinked at the photo. "She gets around, doesn't she?"

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock told his brother. "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler," Mycroft said, "professionally known as The Woman."

"Professionally?" John echoed.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix.'" Mycroft explained.

"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft said. "It's to do with sex."

Sherlock continued examining the picture. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

Mycroft gained a snide smile. "How would you know?"

I felt Sherlock stiffen beside me as he lifted his head to stare at Mycroft. I sipped my tea for something to do. I personally had never even kissed anyone, let alone divulged in sexual encounters. I understood it, and knew about several different types of fetishes—especially from my time in Japan. Simply put: someone like myself didn't actively seek partners. I was too awkward and too attached to solitude. Something like sex—at least for me—needed to be saved for something special. _Someone_ special.

In that moment, I glanced warily at Sherlock. I didn't like how closely he had looked at this photo and the beautiful, experienced woman in it. Surely, he was just analyzing it for clues, but some part of me was uncomfortable with it.

"She provides—shall we say—recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it," Mycroft explained. He pulled more photographs from his briefcase and handed them over to Sherlock. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock leafed through the new pictures and my sense of discomfort increased. They were professional-looking publicity shots for Irene's "services" and showed her in glamorous and sexy outfits, all of which were made of black leather and usually involved her holding a riding crop. Her bust was... perky. I glanced down at my own front and swallowed nervously. In my too-big shirt, I appeared completely flat.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs," Sherlock said.

"You're very quick, Mr. Holmes," Harry complimented.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock replied. "Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer," Harry said. "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock set the equerry in an angry glare as he put the photographs on the table.

"You can't tell us anything?" John said.

"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft replied. "A young _female_ person."

John's eyes widened while Sherlock smirked. I looked down at the photos again and frowned thoughtfully. I supposed that when it came to gaining money for sexual services, it wouldn't make much sense to cut the potential number of customers in half.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock asked.

"A considerable number, apparently," Mycroft said.

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" Sherlock held his brother's gaze.

"Yes, they do," Mycroft answered.

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios." Sherlock now looked down at the photos on the table again.

"An imaginative range, we are assured," Mycroft said.

I glanced toward John to see what he thought of all this and saw that my brother was staring blankly at Mycroft with his tea cup still half raised.

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now," Sherlock suggested, not even looking round at him.

John quickly obeyed him, looking embarrassed.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.

"How?" Sherlock looked up at him.

"Will you take the case?" Harry clarified.

"What case?" Sherlock said. "Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'" He turned to get his overcoat from where it was draped over the back of the sofa.

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned back toward him, brows raised.

"She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor," Mycroft explained.

"Oh, a power play," Sherlock said, his interest now peaked. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

My previous anxiety from when Sherlock was examining Irene's photos returned tenfold. I pursed my lips, trying to understand why the thought of Sherlock being intrigued by this other woman bothered me so much.

"Sherlock..." John sighed.

"Hmm." Sherlock turned around for his coat again. "Where is she?"

"Uh, in London currently," Mycroft said. "She's staying—"

"Text me the details," Sherlock interjected, getting up with his coat in his arm. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

The rest of us got up as well as Sherlock headed toward the door.

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry queried.

Sherlock looked back at him. "No, I think I'll have the photographs." He seemed a bit indignant, as if irritated that the equerry should doubt him. He looked the man over once before glancing at Mycroft. "I'll need some equipment, of course."

"Anything you require," Mycroft assured. "I'll have it sent to—"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock said, interrupting him and looking at the equerry again.

"I'm sorry?" Harry said, clearly confused.

"Or your cigarette lighter," Sherlock said. "Either will do." He held out a hand.

"I don't smoke," Harry said.

"No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does," Sherlock replied.

The equerry reached into his pocket and took out a lighter. Looking a bit baffled and impressed, he handed it to the detective.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes," Harry said.

"I'm not the Commonwealth," Sherlock assured him. He pocketed the lighter and turned away.

"And that's as modest as he gets," John said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Thanks for the tea," I added with a small grin.

The two of us caught up with Sherlock. I found myself eager to get this case over with. I was wary of this Irene... of her toying with the royal family. There had to be a bigger motive.

In an Estuary English accent and without sounding the 'r' in the word, Sherlock called, "Laters!" before we left the room.

The three of us exited the Palace and to get a cab to head back to the flat. I felt a bit awkward stepping onto a main road with tourists coming and going to hail the taxi. Sherlock glanced over at me and bit his lip.

"What?" I whispered. "How bad is it? Do I look as much of a fool as I feel?"

"I never pegged you for someone who cared about what attire she was wearing," Sherlock replied.

"At home, of course not," I muttered. "But out in public, there are certain expectations. The spotlight is the last place I want to be."

"She never was one for school programs," John said.

"Ugh." I shuddered at the memories. "It's horrid. Singing in front of people might as well be considered a punishment for crime."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. He reached up and undid his scarf before pulling off his overcoat. Tossing John the scarf, he then held the coat out for me.

"Oh, Sherlock, you don't have to..." I began awkwardly.

"It won't do much to hide the owls," he said, glancing down at my pants, "but a lady should be at least a bit proper, especially when coming out of Buckingham Palace."

"You were gonna walk out naked," John reminded him.

"It was a bluff," Sherlock said. He shook the coat. "Come on, put it on, we're making even more of a spectacle."

I sighed and slid my arms into the sleeves. The coat was huge on me, the hems reaching past my knees; it reminded me just how much taller than me Sherlock was. The cuffs dangled past my hands and I had to push up the sleeves a bit to access my fingers. I reached down and did up the coat. It was still warm and smelled of the detective: chemicals, tea, parchment, and something that resembled lavender. I wondered if that was remnants of body wash from his bath.

John chuckled, passing Sherlock his scarf. "Should have let her wear mine," he said. "She looks like a child."

"Mine does more to cover the pants," Sherlock argued. "Besides, the absurd largeness to it distracts from the pajamas and messy hair."

"It's messy?" My hands went up to my ginger locks.

"No more than usual," John assured me. "C'mon, there's a cab coming."

We piled into the taxi as usual, myself in the middle with Sherlock to my left and John to my right. I felt oddly cozy in Sherlock's jacket when the cab started heading toward Baker Street. It was a reassuring sensation; I felt safe.

John leaned forward to look at Sherlock. "Okay, the smoking. How did you know?" he asked, talking about the equerry.

Sherlock gave a brief smile and shook his head. "The evidence was right under your nose, John," he said. "As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?" John said.

"The ashtray," Sherlock said.

He reached into the coat pocket, startling me a little when his hand brushed my leg. From it, he pulled a gleaming ashtray and tossed it into the air to catch it before returning it to the pocket. John let out a delighted laugh, causing Sherlock and I to join in.

It took me a moment to notice that Sherlock left his hand in the coat pocket a bit longer than necessary. I could feel it pressed against the side of my thigh. Then, he retracted his arm and leaned back in his seat. He was still smiling and chuckling a bit, but there was something that resembled conflict in his eyes. I snuggled in his coat, my heart beginning to thud insistently again.

I was beginning to think I was in trouble.

* * *

 _Irene_

Gently, I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I examined my phone. I sat at the edge of my bed; its silken sheets still smelled faintly of laundry detergent. My thumb pressed the button to slide through each picture that had been sent to me: Sherlock Holmes in a sheet being escorted into a black car outside his flat, Maxine Watson being carried in her pajamas after him, John Watson being picked up in a helicopter.

The three of them had been taken to Buckingham Palace, which was to be expected. A delighted smile tucked the corners of my mouth. I went to the next photographs. These were just sent and showed the trio in a cab, most likely on their way back to Baker Street. I narrowed my eyes when I noticed the Watson girl in the middle was wearing Holmes' coat. I didn't take the detective for a gentleman... This could prove to be more interesting than I thought.

"Kate!" I called, my smile growing wider.

Kate promptly entered the room. She was slender and beautiful with a fair complexion and medium-length ginger hair. She wore a black pencil skirt with dark tights beneath and a white blouse with a loose black tie.

"We're going to have a visitor," I told her. "I'll need a bit of time to get ready."

I got to my feet and strode over to my dressing table as Kate bent down to pick up a discarded stocking from the floor.

"A long time?" she asked.

"Ages!" I replied, examining my reflection in the mirror.

I carefully took out my earrings and looked over my makeup, trying to decide on a color and theme. From what I'd been told and what I'd observed, Sherlock Holmes was not a man for physical relations.

But, so far, no-one had said no to me.

* * *

 _Maxine_

When we got back to the flat, I gave Sherlock his coat back and thanked him again. Then I went up to my room to get dressed. I picked out a simple T-shirt that had a blue winged cat on it and some jeans. Heading back down the steps, I heard the sound of clattering clothes hangers near the back of the kitchen. Looking back, I saw Sherlock was in his room and had left his door wide open.

"What are you doing?" John asked him. He came to my side and shook his head at our flatmate's actions.

"Going into battle, John." Sherlock continued to sift through his closet. "I need the right armor."

He walked back toward us, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket.

"No," he said, ripping it off.

"Coming up with a fake persona?" I asked, walking over to the door.

"Something like that." Sherlock was back in his closet.

"You _do_ remember that you're famous now," I said.

"No-one's gotten a proper picture yet," Sherlock argued. "I had the hat."

"Oh, yes, the hat, that will be just as good as Clark Kent's glasses," I sighed.

"Superman, right?" Sherlock came back into view, holding up a blue collared shirt to himself. "From what I know, the glasses _do_ work."

"Against all reason," I pointed out.

"We don't know if Adler pays attention to the media," Sherlock said as he tossed the shirt aside and went back toward his closet.

I sighed and shook my head, exchanging an exasperated look with my brother.

"Sherlock," John called. "I really think something normal would be fine."

Sherlock grunted in irritation. "Hardly. You remember what she does for a living, don't you?"

"Are you trying to seduce her?" John laughed.

An uncomfortable twinge went up my spine. "That seems like a bad idea," I said before I could stop myself.

"I'm not trying to _seduce_ her," Sherlock replied indignantly, which filled me with relief. "I'm trying to seem... vulnerable. Innocent."

"Oh, he's being bait," I said, the uncomfortable sensation creeping back in.

"Oh just keep the black shirt," John said. "You don't want to show up half-naked and be too obvious."

"I suppose so," Sherlock said with a long exhale. "But I need _something._ Some sort of defensive or offensive piece..."

I ran a hand over my face. "This has to be the weirdest one yet."

"Weirdest what?" John asked.

"Case," I said. "Obviously."

"I dunno, I can think of weirder," John replied with a thoughtful frown. "That belly button one—"

"Oh, _not_ the belly buttons again," Sherlock groaned.

He began to straighten his shirt and glanced over toward me as he did so. His eyes ran over me and they widened with sudden excitement. He stepped toward me and gripped my shoulders.

"You'll need to change," he said.

"What? Me? Why?" I pointed to myself, bewildered.

"It's too casual—if I'm going to be the business man that walks a few blocks from his flat to the bus stop to get to work, I'd hardly be in the company of..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked me over again. "Well, an accomplished but eccentric artist."

"Good save," John said.

Sherlock shrugged and released his hold on me.

"Is it a crime to be comfortable?" I said, folding my arms. When both boys just looked at me expectantly, I groaned and headed for the stairs. "Fine, fine. I'll find something that I'd wear in Japan..."

As I got redressed, I found myself wrestling with the building anxiety in my gut. Why was it that I was so adverse to this case? I wanted nothing more than to go back to Mycroft and demand he take it back and never mention it to Sherlock again. The promiscuous photos of Irene Adler flashed in my mind and I bit my lip.

 _What is wrong with me? Why should I care if Sherlock worked this case? So what if there was a sexy woman with a far larger bust and curvier form—_

I froze in the middle of pulling on a long-sleeve blouse. My head was still in the torso part of it and my breath heated the fabric that pressed against my nose and lips.

I was _jealous._ I was actually upset about Sherlock looking at this woman with so much intrigue.

Finally regaining my senses a bit, I pulled the shirt all the way on and collapsed onto my bed. I stared at my knees, my jaw slack. I might not have interacted with a lot of people throughout my life, I hadn't ever been in any sort of intimate relationship or even fantasized about then. However, I had written and read enough fiction to understand the typical human mind and the emotions within.

Simply put: if I was feeling jealous about Sherlock being near this woman who used sex as a weapon, I most likely...

 _Shit._

I looked around for my scarf and saw it draped across the back of my work chair. Instantly, I got to my feet and went to collect it. Once it was in my hands, I let my fingers run across the soft fabric. This simple piece of cloth had always comforted me. It had been with me when I was lost in the streets of Tokyo. It had been there when I got brave enough to enter Miyako's dojo. It was always there when I was feeling lost or needed a dose of bravery.

And I was certainly lost right then. Lost and confused in my own head and at a complete loss of what to do with this new information.

There was an abrupt knock on the door that made me jump.

"Are you ready yet?" Sherlock called.

"N-no! Just... hang on!" I stammered.

I tossed the scarf on the bed and went over to my wardrobe for some nicer pants. I found a pair of tan slacks and quickly changed my jeans out for them. I grabbed a pair of black flats for my feet, then snatched my scarf again.

When I opened my door, I saw Sherlock standing there with his coat and scarf on. He looked me over with a startled blink.

"Problem?" I asked, looking down at myself warily.

"No," Sherlock replied quickly. "It's just... I've never seen you in formal attire. Well, I suppose this is sort of... fancy casual?"

I laughed as I pulled my scarf around my neck.

"Mm, you should leave that," Sherlock said, pointing at the scarf. "It's too old and worn to go with the rest of the outfit. Doesn't look natural."

I gripped the yellow fabric protectively. "I dunno about that."

Sherlock perked a brow at me. "Are you that attached to it?"

"You _know_ I am," I sighed. "I'll leave it if I have to."

"Just for today," Sherlock assured with a small grin.

I rolled my eyes at him, getting the feeling he was teasing me about being sentimental. He used the same scarf all the time; he had no room to talk.

I left my scarf draped over the back of Sherlock's chair as a reminder that he was the one who made me leave it behind. John walked out into the living room after me as Sherlock freshening up.

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, reaching into my trouser's pocket for my phone.

"Because you're checking your settings on you mobile again," John said as I clicked through my phone's menu.

Letting out a sharp breath, I lowered my phone and looked at my brother. "It's nothing."

"Clearly, it's something," John countered.

I shoved my mobile back in my pocket and shrugged. "I just... this woman—this Irene Adler—she makes me... uncomfortable."

John blinked. "Well, I mean, she _is_ a rather... intense-looking woman," he admitted and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"You find her attractive," I stated rather than asked.

"What? No. I mean, I'm seeing Sarah still." John adverted my gaze and waved me off. "No. No-no-no."

I looked at him pointedly and he groaned.

"Fine, yes, but that's not my fault." He pointed at me. "I can hardly control who I find... pleasing to look at. You can relate to that, at least. You couldn't wait to draw Sherlock when we first met him."

A twinge hit my gut and I started taking my phone out again. "His features are difficult to get properly in a drawing," I muttered. "Just like certain scars and other unique attributes."

John grabbed my wrist before I could bring the phone up to my face. We met each other's eyes and his expression was both quizzical and intense.

"Maddie," he started to say slowly.

"All set?"

Sherlock strode through the kitchen toward us. He wore the exact same thing that Plummer's associate had picked out for him earlier. He reached over and snagged his coat and scarf that were hanging near the door that led out to the landing. When he looked at us, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." John released my wrist and I pocketed my mobile again.

"Shall we?" I said before pushing past both boys and heading down the stairs before either of them could see the red in my cheeks.


	30. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 4

_Sherlock_

"So, what's the plan?" John asked.

The three of us were in a cab heading toward Irene Adler's residence. Maxine had been oddly quiet—not her usual sort of comfortable silence, but something that was awkward and anxious. I glanced at her and couldn't figure out exactly what was bothering her. Was she upset that I made her leave the scarf behind? I still didn't quite understand how someone like Maxine could find so much value in a simple object.

"We know her address," I replied to John's question.

"What, just ring the doorbell?" John raised his brows.

"Exactly," I said. To the cabbie, I called. "Just here, please."

"You didn't even change your clothes," John pointed out.

"Then it's time to add a splash of color," I replied.

The cab pulled over and the three of us exited the vehicle. I led the Watsons down a narrow street, pulling off my scarf as we walked. After I heard the taxi pull away and was certain no other cars were nearby, I stopped and turned to face the siblings.

"Are we here?" John asked.

"Two streets away, but this'll do," I said.

John looked confused. "For what?"

Maxine, however, locked eyes with me and her mouth twitched a little. "The wounded lamb routine?" she said with a sigh.

"What?" John looked between the two of us, frowning again.

I gestured to my left cheek. "Punch me in the face."

"Punch you?" John repeated.

"Yes. Punch me, in the face." I gestured to my cheek again. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I _always_ hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually sub-text," John said.

Maxine chuckled.

"Oh, for God's sakes," I said in exasperation.

I swiftly swung a punch into John's face, sending him staggering back and grunting in pain. My knuckles ached; I hadn't prepped my hand properly to execute the strike. As I shook out my hand, I looked up to see while John was reeling, Maxine had locked her eyes on me.

She didn't look pleased.

I let out a breath, suddenly realizing who I should have asked to hit me. I barely managed to brace myself in time before Maxine's fist collided with my left cheek. There was a surprising amount of strength in her arm, and it nearly sent me to the ground. Gaining my balance and blinking back tears of pain, I clenched the side of my face.

"Thank you. That was—that was..." I began.

However, before I could finish, John had recovered and surged forward to deliver a punch to my stomach. That time I hit the ground. Groaning in pain, I started to get to my feet, gasping for the breath that had been knocked from me.

"Not entirely necessary," I rasped when I reached my feet, "but I suppose it adds to the... the act."

I started to turn, but John abruptly leapt onto my back. One of his arms went around my neck while the other gripped my head. His legs wrapped around my middle and I staggered under his weight. I reached up and started trying to pull him off my airway, but the shorter man—like his sister—was astonishingly strong for his size.

"Okay!" I said, half-choking. "I think we're done now, John."

"You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier," John snarled in my ear. "I killed people."

"You were a doctor!" I exclaimed.

" _I had bad days!_ " John shouted.

"John, John." Maxine came to our side and gripped her brother's arm. "I think he's had enough. At this rate we'll have to carry him over to her doorstep!"

John remained clinging to my back for a moment longer before he released his hold and landed on his feet. He panted for lost breath and awkwardly nodded at me when I turned to give him a reproachful look.

"Well, we want it to seem realistic," he said.

Maxine sighed and shook her head. "How do the three of us survive in the same flat?"

"A mystery even I can't solve," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "All right. So. The plan. I've been mugged, John saw the whole thing, is a doctor, and will be accompanying me to a place where we can use a phone."

"Irene's place," Maxine said. "What am I doing?"

"What we did with Sebastian," I told her. "You're my girlfriend."

Maxine blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Aren't you meant to be bait to this woman?" John asked.

"And forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, apparently," I said with a shrug. "She seems to be someone who appreciates a challenge."

"So I'm her challenge." Maxine folded her arms.

"Yes," I said. "We were strolling along, on our way to the restaurant down the street—Oliver's—to have a date celebrating our one-year anniversary and we got mugged. I defended you, and the mugger attacked and took our things."

"So I didn't get struck at all?" Maxine raised her brows.

"No, no, the mugger saw me as the threat. You, worried for my safety, gave him your belongings to make him leave while he took mine while I was on the ground," I explained.

Maxine narrowed her eyes slightly. I frowned; she seemed too... callous today. She wasn't her normal awkward, carefree self. Her posture was stiff and she kept avoiding my gaze. I'd never seen her like this before and no matter how much I looked at her, I couldn't discern the cause.

"Sure, let's just hurry on," she finally said.

Briefly, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She reached up and pinched her own cheeks a few times until they were flushed. Then, she yawned several times, forcing her eyes to water up. She shook out her hands, took another breath, then she went to my side.

"Good thing I've been a little bugged by allergies this week," she said, sniffing to show how her nose wasn't exactly clear.

"Very good," I told her with an approving nod. "Now, once inside, at some point I'm going to need one of you to get the fire alarm to go off. Most likely John; he'll have more excuse to leave the room."

John nodded. "I can do that."

"Let's go," I said.

Maxine reached over and grabbed my arm. She pulled it around her waist while she wrapped her own arm around my lower back in a supporting fashion. Then, without another word, she began pulling us forward.

I guided us to Irene's address. The building had an intercom with a camera lens peeking out from about it. Maxine and I rushed up to it, instantly getting into character. I pushed the button and kept casting nervous glances over my shoulder. Maxine did the same and she panted slightly from her mouth, giving the impression she was panicked.

"Hello?" a female's voice called over the speaker.

"Ooh!" I said, jumping a bit. I kept my voice high and tight with anxiety while still looking over my shoulder. "Um, sorry to disturb you. Um, we've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they... they took my wallet and, um, and her purse, and both our phones. Umm, please, could you help us?"

Maxine nodded beside me, still breathing heavily. I could feel her warm breath on the side of my neck.

"I can phone the police if you want," the woman said.

It was impossible to tell if who I spoke to was Irene or not. I blinked up tears and sniffled.

"Thank you, thank you!" I said. "Could you, please?"

I took a step back from the camera, bringing Maxine with me. She reached over and put her hand on my chest to get my attention. Looking over at her, I saw her staring at me questioningly. Her brows were knotted up to show empathy and worry more than curiosity. The expression made it seem like she was seriously concerned about my condition; like she cared whether or not I was in any pain.

Maxine's acting had improved quite a bit since we first began doing cases together. However, in that moment, I was astounded by how genuine she seemed. Her hand's presence was oddly comforting. I swallowed and nodded shakily.

"I'm... I'm all right. Are you?" I reached over and cupped her face with my free hand.

Maxine blinked at the contact, but managed to recover swiftly. She nodded and sniffled.

"I just... what if they come back?" she whispered.

"I know, I know." I looked at the camera lens again. "Oh, would you... would you mind if we just waited here, just until they come? Thank you. Thank you so much."

Reaching up to grip my cheek, I began to let out small, tearful breaths. Maxine's grip on me tightened and she trembled.

"It's okay, it's all right," she murmured just loud enough for the intercom to hear. "You were so brave. You protected me."

I'd never heard Maxine speak so... sincerely. It was like she was another person. Meeting her eyes, I nodded fretfully and gave her a weak smile.

We heard the buzz of the woman letting us through. John, who had been watching from outside the camera's view rather sulkily, put on a worried expression and followed us in. When we stepped inside, I forced myself not to look around right away. I had to remain the panicked office worker who was too scatter-brained to be observant.

A woman in a high-end white blouse, loose black tie, and black pencil skirt walked toward us in high heels. Her hair was ginger, much like Maxine's, but hers flowed down in smooth waves to her shoulders while Maxine's remained in tight ringlets and only reached her jawline.

"Thank you," I told her, then took a moment to glance around.

The entrance hall was large and ornate. The floor was wooden with matching panels that reached waist-high on the walls. Above that, they were white with an intricate swirling silver pattern.

"Er, ooh!" I said, raising my brows.

Of course, it would make sense for Irene Adler to have an expensive living space, but Sherlock the office worker didn't know that.

"I-I saw it all happen," John said as he closed the door behind us. "It's okay, I'm a doctor."

The woman nodded at us. I examined her face for a moment. Her expression was empathetic and the way she held herself was practiced and well-postured. She was most likely Irene's assistant.

"Now, have you got a first aid kit?" John asked the woman.

"In the kitchen," she said, and gestured for us to go into the front room. "Please."

"Oh!" I said, understanding she meant for Maxine and I to rest while she took John to get the kit. "Thank you! Come on, let's go sit."

Maxine, who still clung to me, nodded shakily and I tugged her into the next room while John followed the woman to the kitchen. There was plush white carpet lining the floors and the walls matched it while also carrying golden accents that lined concave rectangles across its surface. There were expensive-looking couches that were a subtle gray in color facing one another across a wooden coffee table.

Sitting down, Maxine finally released me. Left alone in the room for the moment, she looked over at me with pursed lips.

"What?" I whispered as I took off my coat.

"She makes interesting use of her money," she replied softly.

I almost snorted. If Maxine had this kind of finances, she's most likely have a large warehouse filled with art supplies and books; it would probably be a constant mess too. I took out my handkerchief and put it to my cheek that she'd punched. Watching me, she grimaced a little.

"Was it too hard?" she asked, still keeping her voice low.

"It was... surprising," I told her with a small smirk.

The sound of heels clacking on wood flooring began to approach us. I bounced my eyebrows at Maxine before getting back into character. She gripped my arm and started reaching toward my face, her expression falling back into one of concern.

"Hello," a woman's voice said—not the woman who greeted us at the door. "Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name."

"I'm so sorry," I began, letting my voice become tremulous again. "I'm..."

However, my voice failed me when I turned toward the woman who walked into the room. It was Irene Adler, with her dark hair done up, her face bearing perfect makeup, and wearing nothing but high-heeled shoes.

My jaw went slack and Maxine stiffened beside me.

"Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" Irene said, smiling seductively.

She strode into the room and stood directly in front of me before straddling my legs and half-kneeling on the side of the sofa Maxine wasn't on. Irene glanced between the two of us, then reached down and gently pulled Maxine's hand away from me. My companion was in too much shock to resist, her mouth slightly agape like mine.

"There now," Irene said. "We're _all_ defrocked." She smiled down at me. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes..." She turned her gaze to Maxine. "And Miss Maxine Watson."

"Miss Adler, I presume," I said, returning to my normal voice as my initial shock wore off.

Irene gazed down at my face. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" She narrowed her eyes and began to lean down toward me.

Maxine's hand suddenly shot out and pressed against Irene's collar bone. Her movement had been so fast, both Irene and I blinked in surprise. With her hand still on Irene, Maxine slowly got to her feet, pushing the naked woman back as she did so. They went a few paces before stopping. Maxine had to be half a foot shorter than Irene, and that was if the dominatrix _wasn't_ wearing heels. Yet as she glared up at Irene, my friend didn't appear intimidated or vulnerable in any way.

"Oh-ho..." Irene murmured, looking Maxine over with her dark eyes. "I don't think you understand how I work, darling. _I'm_ the one who's in control."

"Not here," Maxine replied coolly. "Not now."

At first, Irene seemed a bit irritated, but then her smile returned and she bit her lip for a moment.

"A woman after my own heart..." she whispered.

"Right, this should do it."

At the sound of John's voice, we all turned to see him coming into the room with a bowl full of water and a fabric napkin. He was staring down at the bowl in order to keep from spilling its contents. When he passed through the doorway, he looked up and stopped dead in his tracks. John gaped first at the naked woman, then at his sister who was holding a hand _very_ close to Irene's breasts, then at me before looking down at the bowl again, blinking rapidly.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" John asked, glancing up again, but being careful to only look at me.

Irene stepped back and Maxine let her arm fall. The naked woman gestured toward the couch. "Please, sit down."

Maxine glared at her for a moment longer before coming back to my side. I fidgeted in my seat, uncertain about the strange unrest that was boiling in my gut. I'd seen naked women before, of course, and Irene was attractive to say the least; but I didn't think that it was her that had caused this sensation in me. I glanced toward Maxine as she sat beside me, so close that our legs were touching.

I knew Maxine didn't like people. She didn't like verbal conflict or drama. Yet, she had just put her hand on a naked woman to get her away from me and challenged her without even blinking. What had brought on that protectiveness in her?

"Oh, if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid," Irene added casually.

"I had some at the Palace," I told her, telling myself I'd deal with the Maxine situation later.

"I know." Irene sat in a nearby armchair and crossed her legs before folding her arms gracefully to obscure the view of her chest.

"Clearly," I replied and we stared at one another for several seconds. Her gaze was piercing, as if she were searching for any signs of weakness.

"I had tea, too, at the Palace, if anyone's interested," John said awkwardly.

I ignored him, scanning Irene's face and body, but not with the intent to admire it. I was searching for any hint or clue about her. However, as I ran my eyes across her, nothing stood out to me. I couldn't pinpoint a single thing on her—not a strange wrinkle in her features, not any oddities in her posture, nothing. She was the epitome of confidence.

Bewildered, I turned my eyes on John and examined him. I could tell by the wrinkles and discoloration on his shirt's neckline that he'd used it two days in a row. I could tell by the remnants of his facial hair that he'd used an electric shaver, not a blade. His jeans were neatly cupping the tops of his shoes (which were his nice pair) which told me that he had a date tonight with Sarah. The wrinkles around his right eyebrow showed the result of a strange tick he got whenever he thought too much about his sister, Harry, but it wasn't on his other eyebrow which told me he hadn't phoned her. Looking at his lower lip, I noticed small remnants of toothpaste, which meant that he got a new toothbrush he wasn't used to yet. Finally, the slight suggestion of circles beneath his eyes said that he'd spent the night out with Stamford, because Stamford was the only man who John would go drinking with.

Now I glanced over at Maxine. She'd always been a bit more difficult for me to read than her brother, but it had gotten easier for me over the past months living with her. The graphite smudges on her left hand told me she'd worked through the night on a sketch. Her right hand was clean, so that meant her ache was acting up again and she was giving it a rest. The slight lopsidedness to her hair said that she had fallen asleep on her desk again. Moving on to her body, I noticed how her back wasn't touching the sofa. She was sitting upright and her stone-blue eyes were fixated on Irene. The stiffness in her shoulders told me that she was angry; not just the frustration she would get from time to time, no, this was legitimate and _potent_ anger. When I tried to dig deeper, I couldn't get much.

Maxine had been weird about this case from the start—no, since the moment we looked at Irene's photos. I didn't understand why she was so wound up about it; she usually loved going on cases, especially when there was a intriguing mystery to solve. In this case, it was figuring out why Irene told the royal family she had the photos, but didn't want anything for them.

In any case, my deductive abilities were still functional, even if I couldn't glean everything from Maxine. I looked back at Irene and narrowed my eyes, trying to see more from her. She merely smiled back at me.

I still couldn't get anything.

"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a bumbling office worker with a bleeding face?" I said, frowning.

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power," Irene replied. "In your case, it's yourself."

The tightness of my shirt was starting to get to me. I could still feel Maxine's leg against mine and glanced down at it warily as I unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt.

"Oh, and _somebody_ loves you," Irene went on. "Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She glanced at John momentarily as Maxine stiffened beside me again.

"Er, actually, that was Maddie," John said.

"Was it?" Irene looked round and Maxine, brows shooting up. "Quite a arm you have. Color me impressed. Though, now it makes far more sense." She grinned.

"Could you put something on, please?" John begged. "Er, anything at all." He looked down at the cloth in his hands. "A napkin."

"Why?" Irene asked. "Are you feeling exposed?"

I got to my feet, not wanting to feel Maxine's warmth beside me for a moment; it was distracting me. "I don't think John knows where to look."

I grabbed my coat and shook it out before holding it out toward Irene. She ignored me at first, instead standing up and walking closer to John. The Doctor rolled his head on his neck uncomfortably and forced himself to maintain eye contact with her and not let his eyes drift south.

"No, I think he knows _exactly_ where," Irene said.

"Cheap," Maxine whispered the word so softly, I barely heard her.

Irene looked toward her, raising a brow. "Sorry?"

Maxine met her eyes for a moment before loosing a long exhale through her nose. She looked annoyed and slightly tense.

"Cheap," she repeated, louder this time.

"Cheap?" I echoed.

Maxine shook her head, clearly irritated no-one understood what she meant. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward, bracing her arms on her knees.

"Never mind," she said. "Just put on the coat." She gestured to Irene.

Sighing, Irene did as she was told. As she wrapped herself in my coat, she shrugged and looked at me.

"Not certain if it'd be effective to be honest. I'm not sure where _you_ know where to look," she said.

"If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop," I replied.

"You _do_ borrow my laptop," John pointed out.

"I confiscate it," I corrected.

"Well, never mind," Irene said as she went over the the sofa and sat down next to Maxine. "We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me—I need to know. How was it done?"

"What?" I said, frowning.

Irene began taking off her shoes. "The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?"

Maxine, John, and I all exchanged confused looks.

"That's not why I'm here," I said.

"No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen, and since we're here just chatting away..." Irene said with a wave of her hand.

"That story's not been on the news yet," John pointed out. "How do you know about it?"

"I know one of the policemen," Irene explained. "Well, I know what he _likes_."

Maxine let out a small breath and got off the couch to start pacing.

"Oh." John went and sat down beside Irene, taking his sister's place. "And you like policemen?"

"I like detective stories," Irene said, "—and detectives. Brainy's the new sexy." She set her eyes on me.

I blinked and began to explain the case of the hiker, but her words wrapped around my head for a moment.

 _Sexy._

No-one had _ever_ used that word to describe me.

"Positionofthecar..." I blabbered, trying to guess if she was serious or just trying to toy with me.

John, Maxine, and Irene all stared at me. I cleared my throat and began to pace, getting myself pulled back together. "Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."

Irene frowned slightly. "Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?"

"He wasn't," Maxine said before I could.

Surprised, I looked over at her. Her stone-blue eyes were lit with sudden understanding. It was an expression she carried when she figured something out, or got on the same page as me.

"You don't think it was murder?" Irene looked at Maxine now, raising a brow.

"Because—were you just listening to him?" Maxine gestured to me. "It's obvious."

"It is?" John said.

"Do _you_ think it wasn't murder?" Irene asked me.

"I _know_ it wasn't," I replied.

"How?" Irene queried.

"The same way I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room," I told her.

Maxine shot me a small look. Apparently, she wasn't completely on the same page as me, but I knew she was close.

"Okay, but how?" Irene demanded.

"So they _are_ in this room." I smiled slightly. "Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in."

Irene and I stared intensely at one another for a moment, both attempting to bend the other. John got to his feet and gathered his bowl and the napkin before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Irene watching him go, her expression growing suspicious.

"Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart and one car," I said, beginning to pace again.

"Oh. I-I thought you were looking for the photos now," Irene admitted.

"No, no. Looking takes ages," I said. "I'm just going to find them but you're moderately clever and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time."

"You think she can figure it out?" Maxine said, folding her arms.

"And _you_ have?" Irene countered.

Maxine kept her irascible gaze on the woman. "Sherlock tends to get finer details than I do. But I know the punchline."

Irene smiled at her disbelievingly.

Maxine, taking the bait, opened her mouth and lowered her arms, clearly intent on explaining the case. However, I held up a hand to stop her.

"Don't spoil it," I said.

Maxine rolled her eyes, but I knew she understood. We had to buy more time, and stringing Irene along was more beneficial to that goal than outright telling her the cause of the hiker's death.

"The driver's trying to fix his engine," I went on once I was sure Maxine would remain silent. "Getting nowhere. And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky. Watching birds?" I shared a knowing look with Maxine and she managed to smile a little. I shrugged to show my doubt and she gave an amending nod.

"I _know_ it wasn't a bird now, obviously," she said with a touch of amusement.

"Any moment now, something's gonna happen," I said. "What?"

"The hiker's going to die," Irene said.

"No, that's the result," Maxine told her. "What't going to _happen?_ "

"I don't understand." Irene appeared puzzled.

"Oh, well, try to," I said.

"Why?" Irene asked.

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression," I said. "Stop boring me and think." Sarcastically, I added, "It's the new sexy."

Maxine grinned. It was the smile that I enjoyed seeing on her: the one that reached her eyes. Anytime she gave that smile because of something I said, it made me feel light on my feet. It was a sensation I had started growing an addiction to.

"The car's going to backfire," Irene finally said, not looking nearly as amused as Maxine.

"There's going to be a loud noise," I clarified.

"So, what?" Irene shrugged.

Maxine ran a hand through her curly ginger hair. "This is giving me a headache."

"Now you know how I feel the majority of the time," I told her before looking back at Irene. "Noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance..." I trailed off and hoped my timing was right and John didn't get caught up in something. Thankfully, I was correct and the smoke alarm began beeping insistently.

Irene instantly looked toward the large mirror over the fireplace. I turned to follow her gaze and smiled.

"Thank you," I said. "On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."

I strode over to the fireplace and began to run my fingers underneath the mantlepiece. A switch was hidden beneath and upon pressing it, the mirror slid upward to reveal a small wall safe behind it. I turned and looked at Irene as she got to her feet.

" _Really_ hope you don't have a baby in here," I said.

Maxine chuckled, and I smiled at her.

"All right John, you can turn it off now," I called toward the door.

For a moment, nothing happened, so I called again.

"I said you can turn it off now."

"Give me a minute," John's voice called back.

Another moment passed and Maxine glanced warily at the door.

"Maybe I should go help him?" she murmured. "Before the whole place burns down, that is."

However, the moment the words left her lips, the beeping stopped. Maxine shrugged at me in a gesture that said, _"Well, guess he figured it out."_

I nodded at her before turning to the safe and examining the number pad on the front of it.

"Hmm," I said. "Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used—that's quite clearly the three—but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read." I frowned at the numbers. "I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday—no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight's barely used, so..."

"I'd tell you the code right now, but you know what?" Irene smiled seductively. "I already have."

I frowned at her.

" _Think,_ " she said.

Before I could do so, the door burst open. Maxine, the quick fox that she was, instantly knelt and unsheathed her dagger from her boot. However, she couldn't even take a step before the man that had come in aimed a pistol at us.

"Hands behind your head," he demanded in an American accent. "Drop the weapon." He looked over at Irene. "On the floor. Keep it still."

A second man went to Irene and grabbed her by the arm. He pulled her over toward John, who was being bundled in by a third man. They were all dressed in black suits and bore clean-cut hair.

"Sorry, Sherlock," John muttered, looking irritated. "Maxine, just drop the dagger, will you?"

As I raised my hands, I saw Maxine hesitating. Her eyes darted between each man and her knuckles grew white from her grip on her blade's hilt.

"Max," I said warningly.

"Drop the knife!" the first man barked, now fully aiming his pistol at Maxine.

She glared at him for a moment longer before her hand slowly released the dagger. It hit the floor with a dull thud near her foot.

"Kick it over," the man demanded.

Once again, Maxine hesitated, but this time, she moved on her own without more urging from me. She pressed her shoe to the blade and kicked it out. The dagger slid across the carpet and the man bent to pick it up while still keeping his gun trained on her. It had a long silencer placed over the muzzle, which told me that these people weren't keen on an audience.

"Ms. Adler, on the floor," the man said to Irene as he slid the dagger into a belt loop.

His colleagues shoved Irene to her knees beside John, who was already kneeling on the carpet with his hands behind his head. The man behind him had a pistol pointed at the back of his neck. Maxine eyed her brother with both fury and anxiety.

"You!" the man barked at her. "Up against the wall, over there." He gestured with his pistol to the wall next to the mantlepiece.

"Don't you want us on the floor as well?" I asked, wondering why they were singling out Maxine like that.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe," the man told me. "I want her over there and out of the way because I don't like anyone who can move that fast."

Maxine quirked a small smirk as she went over to the wall and put her hands on it. I nearly rolled my eyes at her. Only Maxine would take a moment to be smug in this situation.

I locked my eyes on the man with the gun. "American. Interesting. Why would _you_ care?"

"Sir, the safe, _now,_ please," the man snapped.

"I don't know the code," I told him.

"We've been listening." The man kept his gun steadily aimed at Maxine's back. "She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she _didn't_." I glanced warily between John and Maxine.

"I'm assuming I missed something," the man said tightly. "From your reputation, I'm assuming you _didn't,_ Mr. Holmes."

"For God's sake," John breathed. " _She's_ the one who knows the code. Ask her."

"Yes, sir," the man said, looking back at John. "She's also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

"Mr. Holmes doesn't..." Irene began.

"Shut up," the man snarled. "One more word out of you—just one—and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship."

I glared at the man ferociously. Anyone who took pleasure in killing helpless hostages clearly didn't deserve to be walking free.

"All right, Mr. Holmes," the man said, adjusting his grip on his pistol. "On the count of three, I'm going to shoot Miss Watson."

"What?" John's head snapped up, but the man behind him pushed it back down with the butt of his gun.

"After that, if the safe _still_ isn't open, I'll count to three again," the man aiming at Maxine said. "And Mr. Archer will shoot Doctor Watson."

"Neilson, are you sure?" Archer asked in a low voice. "We were meant to keep the casualties light."

"Don't question your orders, Archer," Neilson barked back.

"I don't have the code," I insisted as a rising panic began to bubble inside my gut.

"One." Neilson walked closer to Maxine, his hands steady and aiming the pistol at the back of her head.

"I don't know the code," I repeated, this time the strain could be heard in my voice.

"Two."

Neilson was now a mere pace away from Maxine. She kept her hands on the wall, but I could see her eyes darting side to side as she searched for a solution. I pictured her blood painting the white walls. I pictured her petite body crumpling to the floor. Nausea consumed my stomach and my heart pounded in my ears; I could feel my pulse in my neck.

"She didn't tell me," I said, then yelled, " _I don't know it!_ "

"Three." Neilson pressed the muzzle to the back of Maxine's head where its tip disappeared in her locks of ginger hair.

"No, stop!" I shouted, voice cracking.

Apparently convinced by my tone of voice that I was ready to cooperate, Neilson took a small step back. Maxine loosed the breath she'd been holding and glanced warily at me. I gave her a look that I hoped said, _"I won't let them hurt you,"_ before turning toward the safe. Irene said she'd given me the code, but I couldn't think of anytime she'd mentioned a single number or referenced a date or anything.

 _Think,_ I begged myself. I stared at the digits with oil marks on them. 3, 2, and 4. Only three numbers were used in the six digit code. Small numbers, too. What had Irene done that stood out? What had she said?

I blinked as something occurred to me. I glanced back at Irene, in nothing but my coat. Letting out a small breath, I turned back and slowly reached out to the safe. I hit the number 3, the one I knew for certain was the first digit used. Then I hit 2. Hesitating for a moment, I closed my eyes. When they opened, I hit the number 2 and 4. I paused one more time, then punched in 3 and 4.

There was a beep, and the safe unlocked. Looking back, I saw Irene smiling in satisfaction as John sagged lower on his knees and shut his eyes. Maxine, however, barely changed in posture. She darted her eyes toward mine and they narrowed slightly. I instantly knew she realized what the numbers were.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Neilson said. "Open it please."

I twisted the button that opened the door, but paused before fully opening it. The man holding the gun to Maxine was still very close to her, and it was the same for John. This was a risk, and I knew it, but I had confidence in my friends. There wasn't really any other choice; I knew these men would kill us anyway.

"Vatican cameos," I said urgently.

The Watson siblings instantly leapt to action. John threw himself to the floor as Maxine twisted around, grabbed the man's pistol while thrusting his arm aside to disarm him. I opened the safe door and ducked down below the fireplace. Inside the safe, a pistol with a similar silencer on it as their attackers' guns was tripped and fired. The shot struck Archer—the guard who had been aiming at John—in the chest. As Archer fell, Irene got to her feet and viciously elbowed the third man in the groin.

Maxine, who now had the leader's pistol, savagely slammed the butt of it across Neilson's face. He slumped to the floor, out cold. Grinning in satisfaction, Maxine squatted down and grabbed her dagger before handing me the gun.

"You don't want it?" I asked her.

"I'm better with a blade," she said.

I shrugged and looked over to see that Irene had her guard's pistol and John was checking on Archer.

"D'you mind?" I said to the near-naked woman.

"Not at all," Irene replied before smacking the gun across her guard's face and knocking him unconscious. While she was distracted, I quickly reached into the safe to snag the mobile phone inside. As I pocketed it, Maxine came to my side and frowned down at the men.

"He's dead," John announced as he got up from where Archer laid.

"Thank you," Irene said to me. "You were very observant."

"Observant?" John frowned.

Maxine pursed her lips for a moment.

"I'm flattered," Irene went on.

"Don't be," I told her.

"Flattered?" John was still confused.

"Ugh..." Maxine groaned, shaking her head.

"Do you even understand the relations of the bedroom, Miss Watson?" Irene asked with a small laugh. "The body is just as much of a weapon as any gun. In your late twenties and yet you still act like such a child."

"I'd prefer being like a child than whatever you are," Maxine said. "Besides, my body _is_ a weapon. Care to test the blade's edge?" She gestured with her dagger.

"Girls, please," John said as he grabbed Archer's gun and tucked it into the back of his pants.

"There'll be more of them," I added, looking between the two women with a frown. "They'll be keeping an eye on the building."

I grabbed Maxine by the elbow and dragged her after me. I didn't want to leave her alone with Irene when they both had a weapon. John quickly followed and we headed down the hall and back out into the street without bothering to see if Irene was coming with.

"We should call the police," John said as I released Maxine.

"Yes," I agreed before aiming the gun in the air and firing it five times. Somewhere nearby, tires screeched. "On their way."

"For God's sake!" John exclaimed.

I turned and went back into the house. It would be too dangerous being out in the open. I didn't know if these people had cars they could snag us in or snipers up on the roofs.

To John, I said, "Oh shut up. It's quick."

Back in the sitting room, Irene was standing near the safe. She turned to face me, not looking pleased.

Ignoring her for the moment, I looked over at John. "Check the rest of the house. See how they got in," I ordered.

John nodded, gave a warning look to Maxine who roll her eyes at him, then left the room. I pulled the phone I'd taken from the safe earlier out of my pocket and flipped it in the air before catching it.

"Well, that's the knighthood in the bag," I said.

"Ah. And that's mine," Irene said, holding out her hand.

Ignoring her, I flicked on the screen and saw it required a pass code. Though, the setup of the screen was rather odd. The words "I AM" were hovering over the four-character password entry while the word "LOCKED" was beneath it.

"So the photographs are on there, then," Maxine said, peering at the phone over my shoulder.

"I have copies, of course," Irene said swiftly.

"No you don't." I met her eyes. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

Irene lowered her hand. "Who says I'm selling?"

I glanced around at the dead and unconscious bodies lying on the floor. "Well, why would _they_ be interested? Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs."

"That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes," Irene said, her tone growing stern. "I'd die before I let you take it." She walked closer and held out her hand again. "It's my protection."

Before any of us could make another move, John's voice called out, "Sherlock!"

I pulled the phone back while staring unflinchingly into Irene's eyes. "It _was._ "

Gesturing for Maxine to follow me, we turned and left the room. I heard Irene follow after us, but didn't bother paying her any attention for the moment. We went up a flight of steps and entered a bedroom by following John's voice. It was as elegant as the rest of the home, and the king sized bed probably saw more things than most adult websites.

John was kneeling beside the redheaded woman that had let us in. She was lying silently on the floor, eyes closed and body unmoving. The Doctor leaned down to put his ear near her mouth to check for breathing. Straightening up, he put his fingers to her neck for a pulse.

"Must have come this way," John said as he got to his feet.

"Clearly," I replied.

I spotted the bathroom adjoined to the room and went toward it, spotting the window inside. Behind me, I heard Irene's footsteps walk anxiously over to Kate. I was slightly surprised she felt concern for the woman.

"It's all right," John assured. "She's just out cold."

"Well, God knows she's used to that," Irene said. "There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson."

I came out of the bathroom in time for John to say, "Sure," and leave the room. Maxine looked over Kate before her eyes met mine.

"At least they didn't resort to killing all witnesses," she said with a small shrug.

Irene stepped over to a dressing table, seemingly to check her reflection. I looked down at the phone again, trying to imagine what her password might be. Four characters, and it seemed letters were possible inputs.

"You're very calm," I noted as Maxine went toward the door to peek out into the hall for her brother.

Irene looked around at me, staring blankly.

"Well, your booby trap did just kill a man," I pointed out.

"He would have killed me," Irene replied calmly. "It was self defense in advance."

I looked back down at the phone and bit my lip. The last numbers she used as a passcode were quite... personal. However, I was going to guess that because this could use letters, she probably made use of them. Perhaps it was a combination. The smart thing to do would be to pick a random combination, nothing that could be guessed or deciphered.

Irene Adler wasn't exactly a random person, though. She liked the game. She liked the chase.

"Ah!"

Maxine's sudden gasp made my head snap up. I stared in something mixed with shock and horror as Irene slowly pulled out a needle from Maxine's neck.

"What did you just...?" Maxine turned to face Irene, one hand on the side of her neck, the other gripping her dagger at the ready.

Irene took a quick step back as Maxine stumbled and used the wall to brace herself. Whatever had been in that needle didn't want her on her feet.

"What did you do to her?" I demanded, starting to storm over to Irene while reaching for the gun I'd put in my pocket.

"Easy, Mr. Holmes." Irene aimed her own pistol toward Maxine. "The phone."

I narrowed my eyes at her, heat beginning to bubble up in my gut. I glanced between Maxine and Irene, frozen with my hand nearly at my pocket.

"You seem very fond of this little kitten," Irene said.

"You'd kill an innocent woman for this?" I asked, gesturing with the phone in my hand.

"I told you that phone is my life," Irene said.

"Sherlock..." Maxine mumbled, slowly sliding down the wall. "I... can't..."

"I don't have long, Mr. Holmes," Irene said. "Hand it over now or I shoot."

I bit my lip, eyes darting between her and Maxine, who was now barely keeping her eyes open, slumped on the floor. I wasn't certain if Irene would follow through with her threat, but I wasn't going to risk it. She _had_ just had a man killed by her booby trap and didn't seem the least bit bothered. Gritting my teeth, I put the phone into her awaiting hand.

"Thank you," Irene said, pocketing it. "Now hold still."

"What?" I started to take a step back, but Irene realigned her aim at Maxine.

Clenching my jaw again, I remained where I was as Irene slowly walked over to me. From the same pocket she stashed the phone, she drew yet another syringe.

"Have a lot of those just stashed around, do you?" I asked dryly.

"Can't have you following me," Irene said with a small grin. "And I admit, a small part of my enjoys the idea of you under my power."

"Naturally," I said tightly as she plunged the needle into my arm.

The effects were quick. I felt a fog begin to flood my mind and staggered. Irene struck out her hand and slapped me hard across the face. Grunting in pain, I collapsed to the ground. Despite knowing that it was useless, I still tried to push myself up on all fours. Irene kicked me in the side, sending me on my back. She leered down at me with a smug expression.

"Now, tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me," Irene said. "They're not for blackmail, just for insurance. Besides, I might want to see her again."

I tried to get up again, but Irene pushed her foot against my chest. She snatched a riding crop from her bed and aimed the end down toward my face.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," she said, shaking her head. "It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it." She gently stroke the end of the crop against my cheek. "This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you."

My vision began to blur. My head rested back against the ground as the energy fled my limbs.

"Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Irene said. She sounded like she was speaking from the other side of a waterfall.

"Jesus," John's voice came floating from the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"They'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure they don't choke on their own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse," Irene replied casually.

"What's this?" John demanded. I could made out his shape kneeling and picking something up. "What have you given them? Maxine! Sherlock!"

"They'll be fine," Irene assured. "I've used it on loads of my friends."

"Maddie, can you hear me?" John was kneeling again, over by the door where Maxine had collapsed. "Maxine!" Grunting in irritation, John moved over to me. I felt him grip my wrist for a pulse. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

"You know, I was wrong about him," Irene said. "He _did_ know where to look."

John got to his feet. "For what?" His voice was tight with anger. "What are you talking about?"

"The key code to my safe," Irene replied.

"What was it?" John asked.

I saw her shape face me and I tried to get up again. My body barely raised millimeter off the ground and I fell back again.

"Shall I tell him?" Irene said playfully.

In the distance, the sound of police sirens echoed. Irene walked over to the bathroom and hopped up on the windowsill. I glared toward her figure, clinging desperately to the last threads of my consciousness.

"My measurements," Irene said.

With that, she gripped what looked like a thin rope and fell backward out of the window. John ran over to the window just as darkness swallowed me. However, as soon as the shadows wreathed me, the field where the hiker died bloomed before me. I sat in the driver's seat of Phil's car.

Just outside the window, Irene appeared. She gripped the car door and stared at me urgently.

"Got it!" she declared.

I blinked, confused by what she was getting at and made to get out of the car. However, just as I reached for the handle, Irene held up a finger.

"Oh, shush now," she said. "Don't get up. I'll do the talking."

She turned and walked toward the rear of the car to examine the exhaust pipe.

"So the car's about to backfire..." She stood up again and quite suddenly, we were both standing near the hiker in the field. "...and the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now, you said he could be watching birds, but per your little banter with your kitten, that isn't the case, is it?"

Irene strode around to the front of the hiker. The man was frozen in time, staring up at the sky at a forty degree angle. She turned and followed his gaze. I looked up as well, knowing very well what I'd see.

"He was watching another kind of flying thing," Irene said. "The car backfires and the hiker turns to look..."

At her words, the hiker turned his head back toward the car, and at that same moment, an object flew in and struck him against the back of his head. The object was so fast, it was a mere blur and it was already gone by the time the hiker his the ground. As he fell, I recalled falling backward onto the floor of Irene's bedroom. I looked around, trying to get a glimpse of something ginger, but before I could find it, Irene and I were back at the crime scene.

"...which was a big mistake," Irene went on. She glanced back toward the road. "By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead. What he doesn't see is what killed him because it's already being washed downstream."

Glancing back to the river, I spotted an object floating at its edge: a boomerang.

"An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with... a boomerang," Irene murmured. "You got that from one look? _Definitely_ the new sexy."

She turned and smiled at me.

"I..." I began, my voice distant and confused. I looked around, once again searching for some hint of ginger hair. "Max... where is she...?"

The crime scene fled away and I was falling backward again. I landed in something soft and warm sheets wrapped around me. My eyes fell closed.

"Always with the kitten..." Irene whispered. "Hush now."

She leaned over me; I could smell her rosy scent. An expensive perfume found in France.

"It's okay," she murmured. "I'm only returning your coat."

Her face came closer toward mine, but then she was gone. Then, with a jolt, I woke.

I was in my bedroom, alone. I still wore the clothes I'd been in when we went to Irene's place. With a slightly pounding head, I sat up a bit.

"John?" I called in a rasping voice. "Max?"

I shook my head. My vision was still blurry and the bed beneath me felt like it was a raft on a river.

"John!" I said louder. "Max!"

I threw my sheets off of me and pushed myself up onto my knees on the bed. My balance quickly fled and I fell forward and over the foot of the bed. Luckily, I managed to roll and landed on my tailbone rather than my head.

The door opened and John came in as I sat up, groaning.

"You okay?" John asked.

"How did I get here?" I demanded. "Where's Max?"

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much," John said. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

"Max," I repeated, grabbing John's arm.

"Upstairs, sleeping it off like you," John said. His expression pinched in anger. "How exactly did you let that happen to my sister?"

"Where is she?" I said, pushing myself to my feet.

"I just told you, upst—" John began.

"Not Max," I interjected. "The woman. That woman."

"What woman?" John blinked.

" _The_ woman. The _woman_ woman!" I said, stumbling around the room.

"What, Irene Adler?" John said. "She got away. No-one saw her."

Spotting my open window, I staggered to it and stared out at the street.

"She wasn't here, Sherlock," John insisted.

I turned around and fell down to the ground again. John yelped in surprise, but before he could come assist me, I pulled myself across the floor and peered under the bed before squinting toward the wardrobe.

"What are you...?" John said. "What...? No, no, no, no."

The Doctor gripped my arms and hauled me up to toss me on the bed. I laid there, face-down and unmoving for a moment.

"Back to bed," John said, covering me with a sheet as I turned my head to breath. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine," I insisted blearily. "I _am_ fine. I'm absolutely fine."

"Yes, you're great," John agreed. "Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" I asked.

"No reason at all," John sighed.

He began to leave the room, but I reached out toward him. "Wait, John."

John turned back toward me, perking a brow. I shook my head and rubbed my brow with a thumb and forefinger.

"Max—is Max all right?" I asked.

"I told you: she's upstairs in her bed," John said. "She's fine. Just like you." His face pinched a little in irritation. "Though, next time the two of you are in the same room as a known criminal that is capable of murder, do me a favor and _keep an eye on her._ "

"On Max or the criminal?" I said blearily.

John shook his head and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. I blinked when I spotted my coat hanging on the back of it: the same coat I lent to Irene Adler. I frowned at it, realizing that there had to be merit to the dream/hallucination I experienced. As I stared, the pocket lit up and my phone released an orgasmic female sigh.

Clumsily, I slid out of the bed and wobbled over to my coat. I nearly lost my balance a couple of times, but managed to stay on my feet the entire way. I pulled my phone from my pocket and braced myself against the wall as I activated it.

There was a text message waiting for me. It read: _Till the next time, Mr. Holmes._

I peered at it for a long moment before looking around my room. How'd she get in? Through the window? I tossed my mobile onto my bed and started to stumble back toward it. There was no point in trying to figure it out now; I had to recover in order to think properly.

However, as I made my way to the bed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror over by my dresser. I squinted and went closer to it, frowning at what I saw.

Just to the left of my mouth, there was a red, kiss-shaped mark.


	31. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 5

_Maxine_

My head hurt. I curled into a tight ball on my side, aware that I was swathed in blankets that smelled familiar. My consciousness was fading in and out. I kept seeing that woman—the woman with the long legs, curvaceous form, immaculate hair and makeup...

I kept seeing her leaning over Sherlock and pulling my hand from him.

I kept hearing Sherlock's voice break when he begged the American man not to shoot me.

I kept watching the detective hand over the phone he found in the safe with a vicious fury in his eyes.

Finally, I managed to drag myself from the images and fully into the waking world.

I was in my bed, wearing the same thing I had been in when we went to Irene Adler's address. It was dark out; I could see the slight gleam of the street lamps outside my window. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that it wasn't just my sheets that smelled familiar. Someone had placed my scarf in a bundle by my head.

Knowing it had to have been John, I couldn't keep a small smile from my lips. I curled my fingers into the yellow fabric and pressed it to my face for a moment. All the madness that happened at Irene's place came back to me piece by piece. I sat up, wrapping my scarf around my neck as I did so.

My digital clock over on my desk told me it was nearly four in the morning. I was tired enough to go back to sleep, but my headache was too persistent to let that be easy. Pushing my sheets aside, I slid out of bed and turned on my bedside lamp. The sudden brightness pierced my eyes and shot more irritation in my head. I blinked it away as I stumbled over to my wardrobe, eager for something more comfortable to wear.

I clumsily changed into a nightgown and some loose night shorts. Then—grabbing my blue robe as I went—I headed out of my room and down the stairs. I took the steps slow, keeping my hand on the railing. The living room and kitchen was dark. With fumbling hands, I found the switch and turned the lights on.

Usually, I kept some pain meds in the cabinet above the fridge. Those were the ones Sherlock left alone since they weren't easy to access, even for someone of his height. I originally kept them in the bathroom, but they would always get moved.

I paused by the fridge and looked up at the cabinet while biting my lip. I was still not exactly steady on my feet. Typically, I'd just hop one knee up on the counter to reach it, but I wasn't sure if that would be possible. Rubbing my head, I sighed and grabbed one of the dining chairs and pulled it over to the fridge. Bracing one hand against the fridge door handle and the other on the back of the chair, I carefully stepped up onto it.

Once I straightened up, I reached over and pulled the cabinet open. As I reached inside, a voice spoke from the far end of the kitchen.

"Should you be doing that in your condition?"

I hadn't heard anyone approach, so the sudden sound made me give an embarrassing yelp of surprise and I nearly lost my footing on the chair.

Coming into my line of sight was Sherlock. He was in a nightgown of his own with his silken robe on. He held his hands out in order to catch me should I fall, but I managed to recover my balance.

"It's fine, I'm fine," I assured him with a hoarse voice. I cleared my throat and shook my head. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I saw the light at the bottom of my door and figured someone was getting a snack."

"Pills," I corrected, looking back into the cabinet. "My head hurts."

"Is that where you keep them now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, and _don't_ move them," I told him. "John and I need a consistent spot to find medication."

Sherlock chuckled softly.

Finding the pills, I pulled out the bottle and opened it to tip two into my palm. I offered the bottle to Sherlock, but he waved me off. I shrugged and replaced them and closed the cabinet. After popping the pills into my mouth and letting some built-up saliva wash them down, I began to descend off the chair.

However, going down wasn't nearly as easy as going up. I lost my balance and cried out as I began to fall. Luckily for me, Sherlock was fast. He darted forward and quickly wrapped me in his arms to make my disgraceful descent into a smooth glide to the floor. I gripped the front of his robe out of reflex and found myself out of breath even when my feet were touching the ground.

"Thanks," I rasped. My body was trembling and I couldn't tell if it was from the momentary fright of the fall or remnants of the drugs in my system.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," Sherlock muttered.

"Coming from you, that's quite amusing," I countered.

"You're shaking," Sherlock noted, still with his arms around me.

I looked up into his face. "Still tired. I think. I dunno."

Sherlock perked a brow quizzically as he finally released me. I took an awkward step back and almost fell over again. He gripped my arm to steady me.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.

"Of course," I said, waving him off.

The images that kept playing in my unconscious mind flashed in my wakeful one. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

"Did she get away?" I said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

I opened my eyes to look at him. "With the phone?"

"With the phone," he confirmed. There was some regret in his eyes, but also some resolve.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have turned my back on her—I didn't expect her to..."

Sherlock shook his head at me. "You weren't the only one who underestimated her," he said.

I let a short breath through my nose as I examined his face.

"What?" he said, letting my arm go and taking a step back. He reached up to the left side of his mouth, though I wasn't sure why.

"Did you...?" I began, then shook my head and groaned, gripping my forehead.

"Max?" Sherlock prompted.

"Nothing, it's nothing," I assured him. "Just this headache. I'm sure I'll sleep it off."

"You should have some water." The detective moved over to one of the other cabinets and opened it. He pulled a glass from a shelf inside and went over to the sink to fill it.

"You seem oddly... calm," I told him.

Sherlock glanced back at me, frowning. "Do I?"

I nodded. "We _did_ just lose a criminal," I said. "And we both know that she had more than just inappropriate pictures on that phone. Aren't you curious?"

"Well, yes," Sherlock admitted as he handed me the glass of water. "But I highly doubt that's the last we'll see of Irene Adler."

I grimaced before I could stop myself. Sherlock blinked and frowned at me.

"She's... an intense individual," I said and took a drink of the water.

"I suppose so," Sherlock said. "But aren't youcurious?"

I continued to drink the water as I thought of a response. Of course the case itself intrigued me. However Irene Adler... she was someone I could do without ever encountering again. I still couldn't shake the image in my head of her pulling my hand off Sherlock's arm.

Once I finally finished my glass, I carefully placed it in the sink and stared at it for a moment. I knew I couldn't stall for much longer; Sherlock surely already thought that I was acting strange.

"She's dangerous in a way that I'm not comfortable with," I whispered.

Sherlock leaned toward me. "What do you mean?"

I sighed and shook my head. "Sorry, I'm still blurry. I should go to bed."

"Let me walk you up," Sherlock said, reaching for me. "John would kill me if you fell down the stairs."

I was tempted to tell him no. A few days ago, he'd sat on me on the sofa and we talked about sparring together. Then, the idea of him being so close... of him touching me... was oddly appealing. However now, after that whole thing with Irene, I was suddenly wary of him being close.

In fact, I was _scared._ Scared that he would touch me and then he'd be pulled away.

Characters not realizing what they had until it was gone was a trope I used in my stories before. It was a plot point that I found very effective for character development.

But this wasn't one of my stories.

"Thanks," I said, and allowed Sherlock to take my arm.

Gently, he guided me up the steps. He seemed to have recovered from the sedation a lot faster than me. It could be because of our difference in body size, or he had experience with this kind of stuff before. After all, the first time that we met Sherlock, Lestrade betrayed the fact that the detective had been involved in drugs in the past.

We got to my room and Sherlock walked me all the way to my bed. As I laid down, he plucked at the scarf around my neck and let out a small, amused breath.

"Oh shut up," I told him, burrowing under my sheets. "I don't know why it gives me comfort, but it does. Perhaps the same way the violin helps you think, hm? Or how shooting a wall makes you feel better?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It didn't make me feel _better._ It just staved off the..."

"Insanity?" I supplied.

"We can go with that." Sherlock shrugged. He frowned as he looked down at me.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing," Sherlock said abruptly. "Rest up. John was worried."

With that, he turned and left the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind him. I stared after him for a moment. It was odd; it was like there were two sides to Sherlock the past few weeks. There was the Sherlock I first met, who was standoffish and awkward. Then there was this other Sherlock who was soft spoken and smiled more. One that stared at me and let our legs be pressed together when we sat side-by-side.

My headache faded and I closed my eyes. Whatever was going on inside me, I'd have to deal with it in the morning.

* * *

The next time I woke, it was with a clearer head and much more balance. I pushed my sheets aside and got up to get dressed. It was a little past eight and I could hear some movement downstairs in the kitchen. Once I pulled on a striped long-sleeve shirt and some jeans, I headed down the stairs. I had my scarf around my neck; its presence gave my jumbled insides some comfort.

In the living room, I spotted John eating breakfast and Sherlock sitting across the table from him, the newspaper in his hands.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said, and it was only then I noticed Mycroft standing nearby.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," Mycroft said irritably. He looked over as I reached the bottom of the steps. "Ah. Good morning, Maxine. You look quite lovely, despite your encounter with Miss Adler."

Sherlock looked round at me before shooting his brother a frustrated glare.

"They told you about the needle thing?" I guessed, deciding to pretend I hadn't seen Sherlock's sour expression.

"He wanted a full report," John said with a small shrug. He gestured toward the kitchen. "There's more eggs and sausage in there; you should eat something. Are you feeling all right?"

"Better," I said, heading into the kitchen. "Never been drugged before. It was certainly an experience." Spotting Mrs. Hudson near the counter, I gave her a small nod. "Morning Mrs. H."

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling gently at me. "Make certain you get some protein in you! You're already such a small thing, I can't imagine how heavily that medicine effected you."

"Irene Adler isn't interested in blackmail, Mycroft," Sherlock said, bringing the conversation back on track. "She wants... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she had the photographs?" Mycroft demanded. "Our hands are tied."

"She'd applaud your choice of words," Sherlock said.

I rolled my eyes as John smirked. I began to pile some scrambled eggs onto a plate as Sherlock went on.

"You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card," he said. "You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way _she_ treats royalty," John added, smiling.

Mycroft smiled humorlessly back.

As I headed back toward them with my plate, a strangely sensual female sigh filled the room. I paused just behind the detective, staring down at him with a frown that John and Mycroft mirrored.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Text," Sherlock replied casually.

"But what was that noise?" John pressed.

Sherlock got to his feet and went over to his armchair where his phone was. He picked it up and activated it to glance at the message. His expression didn't give anything away; he remained perfectly stone-faced as he lowered his mobile.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent us three in there?" Sherlock said. "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

I sat down next to John as Sherlock returned back to his seat. I stared down at my eggs and sausage, my appetite suddenly non-existent. The orgasmic sigh that came from Sherlock's phone could have only been put on there by one person. Why was she texting him?

"Yeah, _thanks_ for that, Mycroft," John said tightly. "They nearly killed Maddie."

"It would have been fine," I said with a wave of my hand. I forked some eggs and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted like nothing.

"The gun was pressed against the back of your skull," John replied, looking over at me. "Even _you_ couldn't have gotten out of that."

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that," Mrs. Hudson said sternly as she headed into the room with her own plate of food. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft replied bitterly.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock shouted furiously as John and I both yelled, "OI!"

Mycroft looked at our angry faces and cringed before looking contritely at Mrs. Hudson. "Apologies," he said.

"Thank you," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock added.

I was about to flick some egg at him, but then his phone sighed again. Mrs. Hudson, who had started to head back into the kitchen, turned back, looking aghast.

"Ooh. It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" she said.

Sherlock peeked at his mobile for a moment, then looked back at Mycroft.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see," he said.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her," Mycroft said.

"Why bother?" Sherlock scoffed. "You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is 'TheWhipHand.'"

"Yes. Most amusing." Mycroft still looked irate. His phone began to ring and he pulled it from his pocket. "'Scuse me," he said, before answering it and going into the hall.

Sherlock watched him leave, eyes squinted suspiciously. John looked over at him and pointed his fork in his direction.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" he asked.

"What noise?" Sherlock didn't meet his eyes.

" _That_ noise—the one it just made," John said.

"It's a text alert," Sherlock replied. "It means I've got a text."

"Hmm. Your texts don't usually make that noise," John pointed out.

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise," Sherlock said.

"Hmm. So every time they text you..." John said.

The phone sighed again, as if on cue.

"It would seem so," Sherlock muttered.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" Mrs. Hudson asked wearily from the kitchen. "At my time of life, it's..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Sherlock looked at his mobile briefly before setting it down and lifting the paper again. I stared at it, my hands itching to snatch it and read the messages. What could she possibly be saying to him? I bit my lip before stuffing more food into my mouth; it still didn't taste like anything and my stomach was becoming a nest of snakes.

"Why would she _do_ that?" I murmured, narrowing my eyes.

"She seems to have grown a fondness for Sherlock," John said with a small chuckle.

I grimaced and poked at my food. I didn't even have the will to try and eat anymore. "She certainly likes to... flaunt her victory."

Sherlock lifted the paper so it obscured his face. "That she does," he said with a hint of irritation.

"Bond Air is go, that's decided." Mycroft strode back into the room, still chatting on the phone. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He hung up his mobile and Sherlock lowered his paper to look at him.

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft frowned at him quizzically.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock clarified. "The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." He stood up and faced his brother. " _Much_ more."

Mycroft's expression was unreadable. Sherlock walked closer to him, narrowing his eyes.

"Something big's coming, isn't it?" the detective said.

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," Mycroft said. "From now on you will stay out of this."

"Oh, _will_ I?" Sherlock countered, locking eyes with his brother.

"Yes, Sherlock, you _will_ ," Mycroft insisted.

"That just makes it more intriguing," I said, glancing over at Mycroft. "Why can't you tell us?"

"There's nothing to tell," Mycroft said, shooting me a glare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love," Sherlock said as he picked up his violin.

With swift and stunning accuracy, he began to play _God Save the Queen_ and Mycroft rolled his eyes before turning and leaving the room. Sherlock followed after him, playing all the while. John and I grinned and exchanged an amused look. Even when Mycroft started heading down the stairs, Sherlock went over to the window and kept running his bow along the strings.

* * *

I'd always enjoyed Christmas. It wasn't so much the idea of gifts or the food or drinks; I was far more drawn to the atmosphere of the holiday. Fairy lights were strung around the window frames of the flat and outside the weather was cold and snowy. I adored how the sky still seemed to be lit even though the sun had long since set. The light from the city bounced between the clouds and the snow on the ground, creating a soothing gray glow.

Inside, there were festive decorations and cards strewn about. The fireplace was crackling gently and the cozy scent of burned wood and pine filled the living room. Sherlock strode about with his violin, playing _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ with deft fingers and smooth strokes of his bow. Mrs. Hudson watched him with a smile in John's usual chair, holding a glass of wine in her hand. Lestrade held one as well and leaned on the wall near the entrance to the kitchen.

John was wearing a Christmas-themed jumper. It was made of wool and primarily red with white snowflake-like patterns lining it. He strode across the room with a cup and saucer in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. His current girlfriend, Jeanette, had a tray of mince pies and slices of cake on it. She walked about, offering the treats to people as she passed, smiling unde her head of dark hair.

I remained on the steps that led up to my bedroom, biting my lip. Though I enjoyed Christmas, I did _not_ enjoy parties. I was familiar with everyone down there—save Jeanette, maybe—but I still felt anxious. I went over all the things John taught me growing up, all the proper things to say, all the things _not_ to say.

 _Don't comment on weight._

 _Compliment outfits._

 _Offer refreshments._

 _Don't drink too much, because that's when you lose your filter, Maddie._

 _Don't tell stories that might be embarrassing._

 _What do you mean, 'What qualifies as embarrassing?'_

I considered going back up into my room and lying about a deadline or something, but I knew John would never buy it. So, I took a deep breath, and headed down the steps.

"Ah, there she is," Lestrade said when he spotted me. "Merry Christmas, Maxine."

"Thanks," I replied awkwardly. "You too. Er, Merry Christmas."

Sherlock finished his song with a fancy flourish and Lestrade whistled. Mrs. Hudson beamed. Her cheeks were flushed and I wondered how much wine she'd had.

"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock, that was lovely!"

"Marvelous!" John added.

Sherlock gave a small bow to his audience. I wondered how much he'd had to drink to be so sociable.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" Mrs. Hudson said to him.

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied.

I clapped my hands and Sherlock spotted me for the first time. He blinked at my clothing, a smile capturing his lips.

"You and John have similar tastes, I see," he said.

I looked down at my green sweater that was adorned with snowflakes and little reindeer silhouettes. It was a bit too big on me and the sleeves went past my hands. I wore comfortable black sweat pants beneath, hoping everyone would mistake them for slacks in their drunken states.

"Mum sent them," I admitted. "She still thinks I'm twice the size I actually am."

"I think it looks cute," Lestrade said, smiling at me.

Sherlock set his eyes on the Inspector as he put his violin down. He strode over to us and offered me his arm.

"Care for some wine, Max?" he asked.

I blinked at his gesture and stared at his arm for a moment.

"What?" Sherlock frowned at me.

"Nothing," I said. "It's just... you're oddly cheerful."

"Tis the season," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

I chuckled in slight bewilderment and took his arm. "All right. What kind of wine do we have?"

As he led me to the kitchen, I heard Lestrade speaking to Mrs. Hudson. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he wants Maxine for himself."

Heat kissed my cheeks at his words, but luckily it seemed Sherlock didn't hear him. In the kitchen, there were four bottles of wine: two whites and two reds. However, instead of reaching for them, Sherlock went to the cabinet over the stove and opened it. From the tallest shelf, he pulled down a bottle that was oddly triangular in shape.

"Sake?" I said, eyes widening.

"Mm, I believe this is a decent brand," Sherlock said, reaching back up into the cabinet to pull a sake set down. "You prefer it warm, correct?"

I laughed, stunned by the detective's thoughtfulness. "Yes. How did you...? Never mind, that's just a silly question."

"Well, you enjoy warm drinks in general," Sherlock replied as he opened the sake bottle and poured it into the server, or tokkuri, as it was called in Japan. "Wasn't a difficult leap."

He then grabbed a small pan and filled it with water before setting it on the stove. Turning it on to heat the water, he placed the tokkuri into the water so it could warm the contents.

"Merry Christmas, by the way," Sherlock said, looking over at me as we waited for the drink to heat. "I was starting to worry you weren't coming down."

"Well, I heard you playing," I said with a small shrug.

Sherlock perked a brow. "My playing brought you down?"

"I figured if Sherlock Holmes was playing a Christmas tune on his violin for guests, the world must be ending," I told him. "Best be with friends and family for that."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. As he quieted down, he glanced over at me, his pale green eyes flicking over my oversized sweater. He reached over and plucked at the long sleeves.

"I suppose Lestrade is right," he muttered. "It has a certain charm."

"Oh please," I said, waving him off. "Both of you have clearly had too much wine."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Well, _I_ haven't. Dunno about him."

I hopped up on the counter to sit near the stove and watched the water in the pot begin to boil.

"It's a little odd, seeing you so... festive," I said.

Sherlock met my eyes for a moment. "Well, this _is_ our second Christmas together."

I put a hand on my forehead. "Dear lord, we've been living together for over a year. How have I not killed you yet?"

Sherlock laughed and shrugged. "Perhaps my charm?"

"Oh, yes, that _must_ be it." I grinned at him. "You're far too personable for me to detest."

"It's a burden, to be honest," Sherlock quipped.

I chuckled and leaned back, observing him with a small smile. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

He smiled back at me. "Merry Christmas, Max."

Once the sake was warm, Sherlock wiped off the tokkuri and handed it to me along with a small drinking cup, or a kiriko. I carefully poured myself the first cup and took a small sip.

"Mm! Coconut?" I said with raised brows.

"I recall you mentioning that the only time you enjoy coconut is when it's in alcohol," Sherlock replied with a nonchalant shrug.

"Thank you," I said sincerely. "It's an excellent gift."

"Gift?" Sherlock frowned. "Oh, no, that's not your Christmas gift—I just thought you'd enjoy that as your drink instead of typical wine. Your gift is under the tree."

I blinked a few times. "You got me something?"

Last year, none of us had gotten the other anything. Well, John and I got each other gifts, but other than that, the three of us just had a nicely cooked meal with Mrs. Hudson. I supposed a lot had changed in a year. We were... closer. I'd gotten Sherlock something this year as well, but I'd forgotten it up in my room.

"Of course," Sherlock said as we started to walk back out to the living room. "John too. I'd be lost without my Watsons."

Just as we entered the living room, Jeanette strode toward us with her tray of ordures. She offered it to us with a polite smile. I carefully put my sake cup in the crook of my arm to grab a pie.

"Cheers," I said to her.

When she gestured to Sherlock, the detective shook his head. "No thank you, Sarah."

I paused mid-bite on the pie at his words and looked worriedly at Jeanette as her face fell and she turned away. John—who must have overheard Sherlock—rushed over to her, his expression distraught.

"Uh, no, no, no, no, no," he said hurriedly. "He's not good with names."

Before John could correct him, Sherlock held up a hand.

"No-no-no, I can get this," he said.

Jeanette put down the tray on a nearby table and straightened up to fold her arms. She stared at Sherlock with a grim look in her eyes. I glanced nervously at Sherlock, wondering if he's be able to figure out her actual name before this got even more awkward.

"No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots," Sherlock mused softly, looking Jeanette over. "And then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?"

Jeanette's jaw clenched for a moment. "Nobody."

Sherlock smiled falsely at her. "Jeanette! Ah, process of elimination."

John quickly shepherded Jeanette away as her expression darkened. I stuffed the rest of the pie in my mouth to excuse myself from saying anything. Sherlock sighed and looked across the room as the door opened.

"Oh, dear Lord," he murmured.

I followed his gaze and saw Molly stepping into the living room with two bags full of presents. She smiled shyly about the room.

"Hello, everyone," she said. "Sorry, hello."

John walked over to her with a grin.

"Er, it said on the door just to come up," Molly said, as if worried that she was going to get in trouble.

"Of course, Merry Christmas, Molly," John said cheerfully.

The rest of the guests happily greeted Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back toward me.

"Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other," he grumbled. "How wonderful!"

I elbowed him. "You were perfectly cheerful earlier," I told him.

I downed the rest of the sake in my cup just as Molly shed her scarf and coat. Seeing what laid beneath, I nearly spat out my drink.

"Let me, er..." John started to take her coat and his jaw went slack. "Holy Mary!"

Molly was wearing a very fetching black dress. It hugged all her curves and flattered her breasts with a deep and tight V-neck.

"Wow!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Having Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly said nervously, looking around at all the wine glasses.

Sherlock sat down at the dining table. "No stopping them, apparently," he said.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me," Mrs. Hudson said, "so it's almost worth it!"

"Oh, Mrs. H, come now, I make sure they're decent at least once a month," I said.

Molly giggled warily and looked over at Sherlock, who had grabbed John's laptop and started typing on it. I plopped down next to him and poured more sake for myself from the tokkuri. John brought Molly a chair over to the table.

"Have a seat," he said.

Molly smiled and sat down, nodding her thanks.

"John?" Sherlock said, gesturing with his head for my brother to come over.

"Mmm?" John walked around the table to look at the screen of the laptop.

As he did so, Lestrade gently touched Molly's arm. "Molly? Want a drink?"

Molly nodded nervously, and her eyes went back to Sherlock.

I downed my sake, uncomfortable from the strange sensation I gained to grab Sherlock's arm.

"The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," Sherlock explained to John.

He'd pulled up John's site and pointed at the number toward the bottom right of the screen.

"Ooh, no!" John exclaimed in mock anger. "Christmas is cancelled!"

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat," Sherlock said irritably.

"People like the hat," John replied.

"No they don't. _What_ people?" Sherlock looked disgruntled.

I poured more sake as I glanced over at the screen. "The deer stalker? Heh, dunno, it's sort of unique, isn't it? Like a signature?"

"I wore it _once,_ " Sherlock muttered.

"Well, maybe wear it more often." I grinned at him before tipping back the cup of sake.

John sighed and walked away, heading over to Jeanette. As he left, Molly nodded toward Mrs. Hudson.

"How's the hip?" she asked kindly.

"Ooh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking," Mrs. Hudson replied.

"I've seen much worse," Molly assured. "But then I do post-mortems."

There was an awkward silence and Molly's face grew red as she shook her head.

"Oh, God. Sorry," she said.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said flatly.

"No. Sorry," Molly repeated, looking mortified.

I glanced toward Sherlock with a small frown. He could _attempt_ to be a bit kinder today. However, another part of me that was growing warm and fuzzy was finding it difficult to care. I poured more sake, biting my lip nervously.

Lestrade returned from the kitchen with a glass of wine and offered it to Molly. She took it with a smile.

"Thank you," she said. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

"That's the first thing in the morning, me and the wife," Lestrade said with a nod. "We're back together. It's all sorted." He grinned.

"No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher," Sherlock said without looking away from the laptop.

Lestrade's smile became more forced and his gaze dropped to his feet. I wondered how Sherlock figured that out and made a note to ask him later. Molly looked over to John next, apparently trying to mold over the fresh awkwardness.

"And John," she said. "I hear you're off to your older sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah," John said. "Maddie and I head out tomorrow."

I grimaced and leaned back in my seat, drinking yet more sake.

"Sherlock was complaining," Molly said, but when Sherlock raised his brows at her indignantly, she corrected herself. "...saying."

"First time ever," John said. "She's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

"Nope," Sherlock and I said in unison.

"Shut up, you two," John snapped at us.

"I still don't want to go," I said, swirling the remaining sake around in the tokkuri.

"Well, it's a family event, isn't it?" John said, exasperated. "Harry hasn't seen you in years."

"Probably because she's a bitch," I replied with a shrug.

John's expression tightened into anger, but before he could respond, Sherlock changed the subject.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly," he said. "And you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked, blinking in confusion.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," Sherlock said.

John sighed in exasperation. "Take a day off."

Lestrade took a glass of wine and took it over to Sherlock. He put it down in front of the detective and said, "Shut up and have a drink."

"Oh, come on," Sherlock protested. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag—perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He got to his feet and walked over to peer at Molly's gifts critically. "It's for someone special, then."

I saw the rising look of mortification on Molly's face. I looked between her and Sherlock as the detective stooped and picked up a bright red present. John was doing the same thing, his expression anxious.

"Sherlock," I said, trying to get his attention.

He ignored me as he looked over the gift. Sherlock was already in full deduction mode; there was no stopping him.

"The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage," Sherlock said, beginning to grin. "Either way, Miss Hooper has _lurrrve_ on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him his clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."

Molly squirmed in her seat, blinking rapidly as he cheeks grew more and more flushed.

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn," Sherlock continued, "and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing."

Sherlock smiled smugly toward John and me, as if this was just another case he was on. Molly kept opening her mouth slightly, as if trying to say something, but it seemed her voice was lost.

"Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked at the gift again, this time at the tag, and his face fell.

I already knew who the gift was for. Molly let out an anguished gasp and shook her head as she looked over at him.

"You always say such horrible things," she said in quavering voice. "Every time. Always. _Always._ "

As Molly fought back tears, Sherlock turned to walk away. I could tell by his expression that he was horrified by what he'd done. Such a brilliant man and yet he couldn't see what was right under his nose; he couldn't comprehend the notions of in depth feeling.

Sherlock paused and turned back, staring desperately at Molly. "I am sorry," he insisted. "Forgive me."

Molly blinked rapidly and looked at him in slight surprise. She wasn't the only one—John appeared startled and Lestrade's eyebrows had shot up. Sherlock stepped closer to Molly, his posture stiff and slightly awkward.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said softly. It was the same tone he'd use to comfort Sarah during the Black Lotus case.

With slight hesitation, Sherlock leaned forward and gently kissed her on the cheek. Molly's expression went from bewilderment to awestruck. She stared into Sherlock's eyes as he pulled away, her mouth slightly agape. Some part of me twisted inside at the scene, but I forced myself to see it for what it was—a sweet and beautiful moment in which Sherlock owned his mistake and attempted to make amends.

A moment that was instantly ruined by the sound of an orgasmic sigh.

Molly gave a sharp gasp and shook her head. "No! That wasn't... I-I didn't..."

Sherlock straightened up, looking annoyed. "No, it was me."

"My God, really?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"What?!" Molly squeaked.

"My _phone,_ " Sherlock clarified as he dug into his pocket for him mobile.

"Fifty-seven?" John guessed, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked up from his phone, frowning.

"Fifty-seven of those texts—the ones I've heard," John explained.

"Sixty-three," I corrected softly.

Sherlock glanced at his phone before striding toward the fireplace. "Thrilling that you two have been counting," he muttered.

As I poured myself more sake from my tokkuri, I watched as Sherlock reached up for something on the mantlepiece. The detective then turned and headed for the kitchen at a strangely brisk pace as he shoved something into his pocket. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

"'S'cuse me," Sherlock said as he ducked into the kitchen.

"What-what's up, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I said excuse me," Sherlock said, his tone growing clipped.

"Do you ever reply?" John called after him as he went into his bedroom.

Sherlock's only response was to shut his door.

I let out a long exhale through my nostrils before downing my cup of sake. I could feel the alcohol starting to relax me, but even despite the warmth spreading through my from the steaming sake, I shivered slightly. There was something rising inside of me—a sort of pressure that I couldn't describe. I poured more sake and glared down at the cup, pursing my lips.

"Maddie, you all right?" John asked.

I looked up at him and forced a smile I hoped seemed convincing. "Yeah, sure. Just thinking. Oh! I forgot something upstairs, hang on."

Eager to get away from everyone, I got to my feet and walked to the stairs before anyone could stop me. Once in my room, I closed the door and headed to my bed. Sitting on it, I drained my cup and glanced over at the delicately wrapped gifts near my desk. There was one for Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Molly. Though after Sherlock's display, I was suddenly wary to bring them down.

Would he notice how I took a few extra minutes to perfect the bow on his? Or the doodle in his card? I bit my lip before drinking the rest of my sake from the tokkuri itself. It burned as it went down my throat, but the heat was soothing.

Ever since that case with Irene Adler, I'd been off. I would grow distracted while trying to draw or plot. I found myself glancing at my sketch of Sherlock, reliving the memories of when I drew it. My body itched for something, but I didn't think it was the danger and excitement it normally craved. There was something else calling me. Some _one_ else.

I forced myself to my feet and went to my desk. Setting my tokkuri and cup down, I grabbed the presents and carefully stacked them in my arms. Once I was fairly certain I could balance, I went to the door and headed back downstairs.

John must have noticed how wobbly I was, for when I reached the bottom few steps, he darted forward and took some of the gifts.

"How much have you had to drink?" he whispered to me as we carried the presents to the tree.

"Only one tokkuri," I said.

"And how much have you had to eat?" John asked.

"Er, a pie." I smiled sheepishly at him.

John sighed and shook his head as we set the gifts down. "Honestly. Just drink some water before you go to bed."

I nodded and started heading back toward the dining table. Sherlock had returned from his room and his expression was both pensive and glassy. I sat down next to him and pushed my elbow against his arm gently. He blinked and looked over at me.

"What did she give you?" I whispered as the others talked amongst themselves.

Sherlock was startled. He leaned away from me and narrowed his eyes.

"How did...?" he murmured.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" I said. "Well, it is to me."

Sherlock looked down at the table, the glassy look returning to his eyes. "It was the phone."

I stared. "The phone? The one from her safe?"

Sherlock nodded tightly.

It suddenly clicked for me—the slightly horrified gleam and bewilderment in Sherlock's eyes. If Irene Adler gave Sherlock the phone she'd knocked us out for—the phone she held me hostage for—then...

"Oh..." I breathed.

Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips into a tight line. He got up from his seat and started to walk toward his room without a word.

"Sherlock?" I called after him.

He didn't even look back as he closed his door behind him.

About a half hour later, Lestrade got a call that a woman's body had been found with her head bashed in. Our awkward Christmas party was properly broken up as Sherlock, Lestrade, and Molly all set up to go to St. Bartholomew's Hospital to inspect the body. As I pulled on my coat, Sherlock shook his head at me.

"Stay here," he said softly.

"Why?" I frowned at him.

Sherlock met my eyes again. "Just stay here."

I exhaled sharply through my nose and put my coat back up. When the three of them left, my phone chirped with a text alert. I frowned and pulled it out to see it was from Mycroft.

 _Make sure he's clean this Christmas, please. I'll keep him here long as I can; I even brought a cigarette. —M. Holmes._

"Ah..." I sighed.

"What?" John looked over at me. He and Jeanette were trying to clean up the dining table.

"Time for a sweep," I said. "Apparently Mycroft is concerned."

Every so often, Mycroft texted John or me to make sure there were no narcotics in the flat. Mycroft often worried his little brother would fall back into old habits, especially around holidays and after Sherlock had to deal with highly irritating or upsetting situations. I always felt weird going through the flat and Sherlock's things behind his back; it was like betraying him—like I didn't trust him to keep himself sober.

However, I didn't want to ever see Sherlock go back to those sorts of things. I'd never seen him on drugs, but from what I gathered from Mycroft, it wasn't pretty.

"I'll start in his room," I said, getting to my feet and letting out a long sigh.


	32. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 6

_Sherlock_

The woman's corpse laid on the metal cot before us, complexion pallid and gray. She's once had brown hair, but there wasn't much of it left. The skull had been bashed in by a blunt object, leaving any features completely undistinguishable.

"The only one that fitted the description." Mycroft tapped his cane to the floor idly beside me. "Had her brought here—your home from home."

I ignored his quip and glanced up at Molly, who stood across from us. She had changed into a classy Christmas jumper and pulled her lab coat over it. She still acted awkward and uncomfortable around me. Over and over I replayed my idiotic mistake with her and regretted it more each time. The expression on Maxine's face—so full of disappointment and horror—flashed in my mind.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," I said softly.

"That's okay," Molly assured. "Everyone else was busy with... Christmas." She gestured awkwardly to the body. "The is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

I stared down at the mangled head of the body, already dreading the truth.

"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft said.

"Show me the rest of her," I told Molly.

Molly grimaced and gripped the white sheet that covered the body collarbone down. She pulled it down, revealing the less-bashed up parts of the woman's body. I gave it a brief glance before turning around and walking a few paces away.

"That's her," I confirmed.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said.

"Who is she?" Molly asked. "How did Sherlock recognize her from... not her face?"

By the time she finished that sentence, I was already outside of the room. It didn't take long for Mycroft to follow after me. I stared out the window in the corridor, observing the snow fall gently from the night sky. Why would she leave me her most precious item before her death? Why not just come to me for protection? Who had killed her?

Mycroft held out a cigarette to me. I blinked as I turned to look at it.

"Just the one," Mycroft said.

"Why?" I asked, narrowing my eyes in suspicion.

"Merry Christmas," Mycroft replied simply.

I took the cigarette and Mycroft dug into his coat pocket to find a lighter. As he pulled it out, I raised a brow at him.

"Smoking indoors—isn't there one of those... one of those law things?" I said.

Mycroft flicked the lighter on and offered the flame. I put the cigarette in my mouth and leaned forward, allowing him to light the tip.

"We're in a morgue," my brother replied. "There's only so much damage you can do."

I inhaled deeply from the cigarette. The tingle rushed up to my head and I exhaled the smoke slowly. It had been a long time since I had a proper smoke.

"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft queried.

"She had an item in her possession," I explained softly, "one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." I took another drag from the cigarette.

"Where is this item now?" Mycroft glanced toward me curiously.

The sudden sound of sobbing caught my attention before I could answer him. I turned to see a family of three standing on the other side of the doors at the end of the corridor. They were cuddled together and crying together; they were clearly mourning the loss of someone dear to them.

"Look at them," I said to my brother. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end," Mycroft replied. "All hearts are broken." He looked round at me. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

His eyes bore into mine with those words. I furrowed my brow at him.

"What's that look for?" I asked.

Mycroft sniffed and adverted his gaze. "How's Maxine fairing? I heard she presented her new manga to her publishers."

My shoulders tensed and I took another deep drag from the cigarette. "You've seemed awfully interested in her," I told him.

Mycroft scoffed in amusement. "Am I?"

"Aren't you?" I countered.

"Just remember, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, looking back at the weeping family. "Emotion is the rival of logic."

I glanced down at my cigarette with slight disgust as its taste caught up with me. "This is a _low_ tar," I said, changing the subject.

"Well, you barely knew Adler," Mycroft replied.

"Huh!" I grunted and began to walk down the corridor. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

"And a Happy New Year," my brother said.

When I stepped out into the cold, winter night, I pulled one last drag from the cigarette. It all made sense why Mycroft had been making all the strange passes at Maxine the past year. He was doing it to vex me. He was doing it because he knew—he _thought—_ that I felt something for Maxine. That I...

I snuffed out the cigarette butt in a ashtray above a bin before tossing it. A slow breath left me, the lingering scent and buzz from the smoke filling the air around me. I had come to terms that John and Maxine were my friends—that I cared about them and about what happened to them. However, Mycroft was suggesting something more. Something I wasn't capable of.

Pulling out my mobile, I looked at the multitude of texts that Irene Adler had sent to me. They were suggestive and complimentary, and she regularly asked to have dinner. Her trying to tug my attention her way only forced me to realize how attached I had grown to Maxine. Every time Irene reminded me of her measurements, how she found me _sexy,_ how much she wanted to have "dinner," I found myself thinking about Maxine instead. I thought about Maxine's petite form, her freckled face, her smile when I managed to amuse her.

The day before Christmas, I had replied to Irene Adler, desperate to escape these wretched feelings. I stared at the message now, wondering if the timing of the text was sheer coincidence, or somehow led Irene to her demise.

" _Stop._ "

Running a hand down my face before shoving the phone back in my pocket, I elected to walk a few blocks before hailing a cab. After all, my flatmates would be needing more time to finish up their sweep of our home.

* * *

 _Maxine_

"He's on his way."

When John's phone rang, he placed it on speaker for all of us to hear Mycroft. I paused my digging in Sherlock's chair cushions to look over at my brother.

"Have you found anything?" Mycroft asked.

"No," John replied. "Did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed.

"Shit," John breathed. He looked toward Mrs. Hudson and me. "Ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the bathroom," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Or his chair," I said. "Or his room."

"Looks like he's clean," John said into the phone. "We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No, but then I never am," Mycroft admitted. "You and Maxine have to stay with him. At least one of you."

"We've got plans," John said.

"No," Mycroft said before the line went dead.

"Mycroft?" John frowned at the mobile before chewing the inside of his cheek. He looked over at sofa where Jeanette was sitting. He went over and sat down beside her, staring at her pleadingly. "I am really sorry," he said.

"You know, my friends are so wrong about you," Jeanette said.

"Hmm?" John blinked.

"You're a _great_ boyfriend," Jeanette said, but her expression seemed like she didn't believe those words at all.

"Okay, that's good," John replied, seeming startled. "I mean, I always _thought_ I was great."

"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man," Jeanette added sourly.

John groaned. "Jeanette, please."

"No, I mean it," Jeanette snapped bitterly as she started pulling on her shoes. "It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him, and he can't even tell your girlfriends apart."

"Perhaps because no one's been particularly interesting yet," I said softly.

Jeanette gaped at me in horror. John shot me a glare.

"Maxine, seriously?"

"Did I say that out loud?" I turned to blink innocently at my brother.

"Ugh—Jeanette, listen, _I'll_ do anything for you," John pressed, turning back to his girlfriend. "Just tell me what it is I'm not doing. _Tell_ me!"

Jeanette's eyes were bathed in fury and frustration. "Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll walk your dog for you," John offered. "Hey, I've said it now. I'll even walk your dog."

I ran a hand down my face. "She doesn't have a dog, Johnny."

"No, because that was... the last one," John said weakly. "Okay."

"Even your sister knows your girlfriends better than you and your psychopath of a flatmate!" Jeanette exclaimed.

"High-functioning sociopath," I corrected.

"Jesus!" Jeanette whirled to storm out of the living room and to the stairs.

"I'll call you," John said.

"No!" Jeanette barked over her shoulder.

"Okay." John's shoulders slumped as the front door opened and slammed shut.

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically.

"Not at all," I said. "But she was dull, anyway."

"It doesn't matter what _you_ or Sherlock think of my girlfriends," John snapped. " _I_ liked her."

"What you _liked_ was her soft lips and curves," I told him. "No point in either of us getting to know your girlfriends until we see that you plan on keeping them around."

John sighed in exasperation.

After fixing up any messes we made from searching, John sat in his chair and I sat in the sofa near the Christmas Tree. All the gifts were still beneath it and I slowly picked up the one I'd gotten for Sherlock. The wrapping paper was light blue with various white snowflakes scattered across it. A dark blue ribbon was wrapped around it and tied into a careful bow. Attached to it was a small, laminated bookmark with a drawing of a violin inside. It had elegant vines surrounding it, coiling out from end to end and holding the bow across it.

Irene Adler was gone now, but she'd left a shadow behind—a shadow that flooded me with strange and dark feelings.

 _Why'd she have to croak on Christmas?_

I wasn't typically festive, but this was the first year I'd gotten Sherlock a gift. I'd been so excited to see his response to it, but now he was going to be caught up in a new case. Ordinarily I'd be ecstatic about another mystery to solve with him, but this time something was different. Irene Adler was going to be all the detective would think about until it was solved. Somehow, that didn't sit well with me.

Some small part of me attempted to prod my negative thoughts. It was the voice that John had instilled in my head long ago, when I was still a child.

 _A woman has died, Maxine,_ it said crossly. _Now isn't the time to be bitter or cross about the fact that her death has distracted Sherlock. That's selfish—it's wrong._

Yet somehow, I didn't care. I replaced the present under the tree and stalked into the kitchen. Sherlock could open it in the morning—he and John would both have to. None of the gifts had been opened once Sherlock left for the morgue. I grabbed the sake the detective had gifted me and stared at if for a moment before refilling the tokkuri.

By the time I'd heated and drank an entire tokkuri of sake and was working on my second, Sherlock arrived home. He came up the steps and paused in the doorway of the living room. John, who was still in his chair reading, looked up at him.

"Oh, hi," he said innocently.

I was lying on the couch, one hand holding a small cup of sake while the other toyed with the ordainments on the tree. When I turned my head to look at Sherlock, his eyes were roaming all around the living room as if he were scanning every detail before him.

"You okay?" John asked.

I grunted and turned my attention back to the tree. When Sherlock finally walked back to the kitchen door and toward his bedroom, I wasn't surprised by his response.

"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," the detective said curtly over his shoulder.

"I didn't," I called.

Sherlock's bedroom door slammed shut. John put down his book and loosed a heavy sigh. He looked across the room at me and frowned.

"You're still drinking?" he said.

"You've only just noticed?" I replied, my voice only slightly slower than normal. "That book really must be engaging."

"I could tell you didn't want to talk," John murmured.

"Could you?" I poked a bauble that hung from one of the Christmas Tree's branches.

John groaned. "Maddie, I already have to deal with one sulky and passive aggressive flatmate, could you not...?"

"Not what?" I prompted.

"Not be like... whatever you're being like right now." John stood from his chair and walked over to me. "You don't normally drink this much. How much have you had?"

"I'm not turning into Harry, if that's what you're wondering," I mumbled before draining the sake that had been in my small cup.

John snatched it from my hand when I was done. I blinked up at him, scowling.

"That was rude," I said.

"You need to stop," John said. "Drink some water, or you're going to be a mess in the morning."

"You don't know that."

"Maddie, you're over twenty-five, of _course_ I know that."

I flipped over to lay on my stomach and glared at the Christmas Tree. John sighed and I felt him sit down near my feet.

"I think I know what's going on," he said.

"Do you?" I muttered sourly.

"Considering I've never seen you act this way about any other man, yes," John replied.

I stiffened and twisted my head to look back at him with narrowing eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John let out a long breath and shook his head. "You don't make friends, Maddie. You've only ever really gotten along with me and put up with everyone else. I would try to push you to make new relationships—to even date—but you always ended up straying away from everyone. Everyone—that is—except Sherlock Holmes."

My brother met my eyes and pressed his lips in a tight line for a moment. He ran his thumb over his fingers—that nervous habit he'd had since we were kids.

"You _gravitated_ to him," John whispered. "Honestly, we both did. You and I have a lot in common, Maddie, but you and Sherlock have even more. I think... I think he understands you on a level I never could, and not just because he's a genius."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumbled, looking back at the Christmas Tree.

John sighed once again. He patted my leg and got to his feet. "I'm going to get you some water. Promise you'll finish it before you go to bed?"

"Will that get you to leave me alone?" I asked.

John clicked his tongue irritably and headed into the kitchen. As the sound of running water hit my ears, I shut my eyes and tried to shove away all the words John just spoke. I tried to ignore the growing pain in my chest and the longing in my gut. It was foreign and promised agony and darkness that I'd never encountered.

There was a soft clack as John set the cup of water on the coffee table. He put his hand on my shoulder briefly and squeezed.

"Merry Christmas, Maddie," he murmured before turning and heading toward the stairs.

"Merry Christmas, John," I said back to him without turning my head.

I heard him pause and imagined that he smiled before ascending the steps to his room. I stared at the lights on the tree for what seemed like hours. However, I knew not much time could have passed, because when I straightened up off the couch, the alcohol in my system still held sway—and plenty of it.

I gripped my head and bit my lip. What was I supposed to do with all these feelings inside me?

" _You gravitated to him."_

John's words pierced my mind and I remembered the first time we ever met Sherlock. I remembered being more curious about him than scared of Mycroft. I remembered how willing I was to sacrifice my own life in order to protect him from the cabbie. I rubbed my eyes when they began to burn.

"Moron," I scolded myself softly before getting to my feet.

I nearly lost my balance and my head swam. I shook out my hands and began to stumble toward the kitchen. There was some part of me that wanted to confront the source of all this unrest within me.

Sherlock Holmes. I could picture myself going through the kitchen and to his door, opening it without bothering to knock. He would be staring out his window, wearing a night gown and frowning in thought. His face would be illuminated by the street lamps from outside and nothing else because the room was dark. The detective would turn to face me and blink in bewilderment.

"Max?"

I frowned when Sherlock's voice hit my ears. It sounded so real—like it was coming from outside my head where I was imagining all of this. I swayed and gripped the doorframe to remain standing.

"Oh, I didn't mean..." I mumbled, suddenly realizing that I hadn't been picturing going to Sherlock's room at all—I'd actually done it.

Sherlock walked over to my side, looking me over with slight concern. "I thought I made it quite clear that I didn't want to be disturbed."

"Yeah, I got that," I slurred. "But it's Christmas."

"So?" Sherlock scoffed.

"So, it's meant to be the one time a year people are kind and... and giving and cheerful," I murmured. "When people spend time with people they care about."

"Well, I'm perfect to be alone, then," Sherlock replied.

I closed my eyes tightly and shook my head. "No, you don't get to do that," I whispered.

"Do what?" Sherlock replied. "Goodness, Max, how drunk are you? You can barely stand."

"You don't get to come into people's lives, make them care, and accuse them of not caring," I snapped, ignoring his comment about the drinking. "You don't get to just check out and... and act like we don't exist."

"Max, you need to go to sleep," Sherlock insisted.

"No, you need to listen." I made to step toward him, but I lost my footing and ended up falling into his chest.

"Max!" Sherlock complained.

I gripped his dressing down against his front as he gently grasped my arms to steady me. I burrowed my head against his collarbone as my eyes began to burn again.

"I've lived my whole life in this... empty, colorless world," I breathed. "There was just nothing. I had John, but he only brought light when he was around. Same with Miyako. But _you_... you've showed me how to keep the light on all the time."

Sherlock stiffened slightly, staring down at me uncertainly. "Max..."

"It's stupid," I mumbled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be weird, I just... I wanted you to know, and I'm not sure how to phrase it. But when you looked at that woman, when you knew her... her _measurements_ was the code to the safe... I... I realized..."

"R-realized?" Sherlock stammered, but then he shook his head. "Max, come on. Let's have you lay down."

I didn't want to lay down. I wanted to punch the detective. I wanted to grab his face in my hands and... and...

"Sherlock..." I whispered softly. "You're my best friend, but I just... I think I..."

Before I could finish, Sherlock's hand cupped the back of my neck. I blinked in surprise as he pulled me back into his chest and pressed his soft lips against mine. The sensation was foreign and new—something that was both scorching and soothing at the same time. I was startled and wide-eyed at first, but as Sherlock wrapped an arm around the small of my back, I melted into him.

I'd never kissed anyone before, and I wasn't sure if Sherlock had either. It was deliberate and hungry, clumsy at first, but as I closed my eyes and moved my lips against his, we started to get the hang of it. Just as I began to lose myself, my gut twisted with more than just the flutters of attraction.

Panicking, I pushed Sherlock away from me. He stumbled a few paces back, gasping. He blinked rapidly, staring at me with something between shock and hurt. I shook my head, opened my mouth to tell him that he wasn't the reason I shoved him away, and proceeded to vomit instead.

I gripped my knees as the mince pie and random pieces of candy I'd eaten spilled onto Sherlock's bedroom floor. Panting, I wiped my mouth as my whole body trembled. A hand touched my back while another gently pulled back my hair from my face.

"C'mon," Sherlock said softly. "C'mon, this way."

I took his hand and he guided me a few steps away from the mess I made. He then carefully put his arm beneath my knees and scooped me up off the floor. I huddled against his chest, my eyes closed and still trying to catch my breath. Sherlock laid me down on his bed and pulled the covers up around me.

My awareness was fluttering in and out. I snuggled against the fluffy pillows, breathing in Sherlock's scent. My gut felt much better now that I emptied it, but I was left exhausted and weak. Something gently wiped my mouth and chin clean at one point, and I drank some water after, but then I fell into a deep slumber that wreathed me with nothing but comfort.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

I stepped back from the bed when Maxine closed her eyes and began to breathe the deep, regular breaths of sleep. My heart was still hammering in my chest and I took a few deep breaths of my own to try and calm it.

 _Idiot,_ I scolded myself.

My self control had collapsed so fast and abruptly that I didn't have a chance to fight against my urges. Maxine had been standing just inside my room, staring at me with eyes that were both glossy and clear at the same time.

 _"You're my best friend..."_

Yet her expression said anything but _friend._ There was something more—there always had been. I ran my hands through my hair as I took a few steps back, staring at the petite ginger-haired woman curled in my bed. From the first day we'd met, she'd peaked my interest. I looked at her like I looked at a complicated case. I wanted to take her apart piece by piece to learn how she ticked—what she liked, what she detested, what her childhood dreams were, what she wanted to accomplish in her life.

Maxine Watson had been a question I couldn't answer from the moment she walked into that lab at Bart's Hospital. I was close to John as well, I considered him my best friend, but Maxine... she was something else, something _more._

When we first went to Irene Adler's home posing as a couple, I recalled how odd it felt to have Irene pull Maxine from my arm and declare me defrocked—like having Maxine act as my partner was a crude disguise she could see right through. That was the moment that I realized Irene might be clever, but she wasn't nearly as clever as she thought.

I had stared at Irene's bare figure, knowing she intended to make a strong first impression, knowing she was a dominatrix in every sense of the word. She reveled in bringing people to their knees, both literally and figuratively. Toward the end of our stay in her home, I believed Irene realized the truth of how I saw Maxine. Using her as leverage was the smartest move Irene could have made—the only move that would make me give up her phone.

Her phone, which was now in my possession.

I reached into my robe pocket and took the mobile out to glare at the locked screen. Irene Adler had been smart and clever. Part of me was saddened by her death; I wouldn't be able to go against her again—not truly. All I had was this phone, the last test she'd gifted me. Unlocking it would be the only way I could best her now.

Exhaling slowly, I pocketed the mobile and headed out into the kitchen to find some cleaner for the vomit Maxine left on my floor. Luckily, it was still on the wooden floor and not on the area rug that covered the majority of the room.

After cleaning the mess, I sat at the end of my bed, watching Maxine as she snored softly. She slept like a rabbit—burrowed into the blankets and curled into a tight ball. All I could see was her closed eye and head of curly hair. I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to figure out what I would do when she woke. The kiss hadn't been something I planned—it just... happened. In all honesty, I didn't think I truly knew for certain how I felt about Maxine until that moment.

It was official... I had somehow fallen into something I never thought I was capable of. She had kissed me back as well. Granted, when she shoved me away, I was momentarily filled with an anguish that I couldn't describe with mere words, but she had only done it to save me from having my mouth filled with her vomit.

"Not the most ideal first kiss..." I whispered to myself, glancing back at the now gleaming spot where Maxine retched.

Deciding that it wouldn't be prudent to get in the bed with Maxine, I went out to the living room to lay on the sofa with a blanket and pillow. It took me some time to actually fall asleep. My mind was buzzing with what I had done and contemplating whether or not it was a good thing.

Logically, I knew that having a romantic partner wasn't something I wanted. It would distract me from any case I took on and muddle my mind with thoughts and feelings I'd never experienced.

 _"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,_ " Mycroft had told me.

He'd been toying with her for so long—kissing Maxine's hand, inquiring about her on a regular basis, sending greetings to her through John—and as it turned out, he was doing it all to get at me. I had been too wound up in the idea of Mycroft trying to court Maxine to realize it; I supposed that should have told me how I truly felt about her.

When I finally managed to sleep, it was filled with dreams of Maxine in my arms and her gentle smile aimed at me. I felt so comfortable with her pressed against me—it was... natural. I dreamed about the time she refused to let me see a certain article from the paper about us. I had memorized which paper it was and found the article later that day. It had spoken about Maxine and I being a couple and romantically involved, about how John noted how much Maxine had opened up since he and his sister moved in with me.

The morning light woke me. I blinked blearily at the sunlight piercing through the window. My shoulder ached from sleeping on the sofa and I stiffly pushed myself up and stretched. For a brief moment, I wasn't sure why I was in the living room, but then I remembered Maxine was in my bed. I got to my feet and glanced warily around the flat. It seemed I was the first to wake.

I momentarily considered trying to carry Maxine up to her own room before John woke up and discovered his little sister had slept in my room. I glanced toward the sofa where my blanket and pillow remained and elected to leave them there and Maxine in my room. If John had anything to say, I'd simply tell him that Maxine was drunk and got sick, so I let her take my room rather than going up the stairs. There was no point in mentioning the kiss, at least not until I figured out what it meant.

I got some tea on the stove and periodically checked Irene's mobile, trying to discern the password, but nothing came to me. Just as the tea began to steep, I heard footsteps heading down the stairs. John appeared in the kitchen, his hair still messy and wearing some baggy pants and a loose Tee.

"Morning," he greeted sleepily. "Tea on?"

"Mm." I nodded to him and shot him a wary glance.

John had his laptop beneath his arm and placed it on the kitchen table before sitting down, yawning. "After I have a cuppa, I'll make us some breakfast, shall I?" he said. "Maddie always loved scrambled eggs on Christmas morning."

"Er, protein would be a good idea," I muttered. "She'll probably be hung over."

John looked up at me as he opened his laptop. "Oh, so you came out to see her?" he asked, grimacing. "She doesn't normally drink so much. Dunno what got into her..."

"Actually, she got sick," I said, glancing into the living room at the sofa.

John turned, following my gaze and spotted the bedding. He looked back at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Did you sleep out here?"

"Well, I didn't want to snuggle up to your sister after she threw up all over the floor," I replied, taking the kettle off the stove when it began to squeal.

John stared at me over his laptop, blinking rapidly for a moment.

"She's in your room?" he finally blurted.

"Yes," I replied, placing the kettle on a tray with some cups and bringing it over to the table.

"Right now?" John continued to look perplexed.

I put the tray on the table and leaned on it, staring at John with rising irritation. "Obviously."

"Sorry, I just..." John shook his head and met my eyes. "She got sick?"

I sighed in frustration as I sat down across from him. John closed his laptop's lid and pushed the computer aside to give me his full attention. If I knew all I had to do to gain it, I would have resorted to mentioning his sister and my bed a long time ago.

"I... heard her retching out here," I lied carefully. "So I came out and she was in the kitchen losing her dinner. She could barely stand, so I carried her to the closest bed and cleaned up the mess."

"Why didn't you wake me?" John asked.

"She was drunk and vomiting, I don't think a doctor could have done anything I couldn't," I said.

"Right, yeah, sorry..." John apologized again and glanced toward my bedroom door. "I, er... I just... She isn't lying in a pool of her own sick in there, is she?"

I briefly met John's eyes, realizing that he was trying to inquire whether I had done anything with his sister's clothing. I let out a sharp exhale as I poured myself some tea.

"She didn't get any on herself, luckily—well, except her chin," I assured him. "I wiped that off."

"I... I should probably check on her..." John murmured, starting to get up from his seat.

"Careful not to wake her," I said, knowing that if I tried to keep John from my bedroom, he'd think the worst.

John waved me off, acknowledging he knew full well not to do that. I sipped my tea as he carefully entered my room. I didn't know what Maxine would say when she woke up—if she'd tell John about our encounter or if she'd perhaps regret it. She was drunk, after all. It could be that she didn't truly understand what she was doing at the time. Yet, after all my time as a detective, I found that the drunk mind often said what the sober mind couldn't.

When John came back into the kitchen, he carefully closed my bedroom door behind him. He sighed heavily and sat down across from me, pouring himself some tea.

"She seems all right," he said. "Thank you for... taking care of her."

I nodded, avoiding my friend's gaze. "So... you've never seen her drink that much?"

"No," John replied. "She's watched what that's done to Harry and wants nothing to do with it. It's completely out of her character." He took a sip of tea and then glanced warily at me. "Did she... say anything to you?"

"What would she say to me?" I said, carefully avoiding my friend's question.

"I dunno, something to give an idea of what she was drinking so much for..." John said.

I glanced toward John and my gut began to clench uncomfortably. He seemed to be a little _too_ knowing when he met my eyes. I cleared my throat awkwardly and sipped some more tea, stalling for time.

I wasn't familiar with the life of courting and neither was Maxine, so if she had been dropping hints of some sort throughout the past year that she... that she was _interested_ in me... I hadn't noticed. Maxine wasn't like Molly, who carried out the traditional methods of trying to get a man's attention. Changing makeup, different hairstyles, a slimming, curve-hugging black dress... No, Maxine was someone who always had her curly ginger hair barely kept to be socially acceptable, didn't bother with makeup of any kind, and wore shirts that were too big for her and jeans that had holes in the knees.

Her mannerisms were bizarre at times, but she'd been bizarre since I first met her. Clever, unique, demanding my attention in a way I couldn't begin to understand. However, John had known her since she was born. He, above anyone, would be able to tell when she was acting differently. He even stated in his blogs that Maxine was closed off before meeting me—the only person she would hold a conversation with was John. I had, in some way, opened her cage and managed to beckon her out.

It was clear in that moment, that John and I were both thinking of the same thing. I couldn't get the kiss I shared with Maxine out of my head and he was surely wondering if the kiss occurred. We were both aware of the connection I shared with his sister and how something caused it to evolve last night, but neither of us wanted to talk about it.

Luckily, Mrs. Hudson saved us from doing so. She came up from downstairs with a tray of Christmas themed cookies and candies. As she came around to the kitchen, she beamed at both of us and set the tray on the table.

"Hoo-hoo!" she greeted. "I know it isn't exactly proper to have sweets so early, but it is Christmas, after all."

"They look lovely, thank you, Mrs. H," John said, smiling at her. He seemed as grateful as I was for the distraction. "I'll get started on some breakfast to go with it."

He got to his feet and went over to the stove. While he and Mrs. Hudson began to make small talk, I wandered into the living room, unable to sit still. I ran a hand over my face, wondering if a cold shower would help jolt me out of... whatever this was. I bit my lip and glanced toward the Christmas Tree. I hadn't managed to give Maxine her gift yesterday; in fact none of the presents had been given out because of Irene's demise.

I spotted a gift toward the top of the pile. It was long and narrow with deep white wrapping paper dotted with light blue snowflakes that glimmered in the light. There was a dark blue bow wrapped around it and attached to that was a laminated bookmark. On it was a beautiful drawing of a violin with vines wrapping around it and the bow. I recognized Maxine's careful and curvaceous art style. There were bookmarks on other gifts as well; a smiling bulldog on John's, a gorgeous rose on Mrs. Hudson's, an old vintage police badge for Lestrade, and a stylized heart—a _human_ heart, not the kind that were on Valentine's Day cards—for Molly.

She had thought about each person and made something personal and custom for all of them... Maxine had only gotten John something last year, but now she felt connected to everyone enough to do this. I ran my hand along the gift in my hand and slipped a finger beneath the corner of the paper to rip it. As I tore the paper off and removed the bow and bookmark, I saw that it was concealing a long black box of some sort. The lid came off easily and a gasp fled my lips involuntarily.

It was a violin bow—an expensive one. The wood gleamed and down near the grip was an engraving.

 _SHERLOCK._

Maxine had gotten me a personalized violin bow. There were some blocks of resin and some high-end violin strings in the box as well, which I was running low on. I slowly sat on the sofa and picked the bow out of the box to hold it in my hand. It felt perfectly balanced. I loosed a long exhale as warmth spread through me.

"Oi, you could've waited for her to wake up," John called from the kitchen, spotting what I had done. "Maddie was really excited about that."

"Sorry," I said. "I sort of... did it before I realized..."

"Oh, that's lovely!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, coming into the living room. "And she had it engraved too! You know, Maxine can be a bit standoffish, but this really shows her heart, doesn't it, Sherlock?" She smiled and gripped my shoulder.

"Er, yes..." I murmured, still staring at the bow. "She got you something as well. But perhaps we can wait for her to wake before then..."

"Oh, are these all bookmarks?" Mrs. Hudson looked at all the presents and beamed. "They're delightful, aren't they?"

"Yes," I said, picking up my own and running my thumb over it.

"Maxine doesn't usually sleep in this late," Mrs. Hudson noted. "Not unless she had a deadline coming up."

"She's in Sherlock's room," John said.

Mrs. Hudson's head snapped up and she looked between John and me, wide-eyed.

"She drank too much," I explained quickly. "Got sick and could barely walk, so I carried her to my bed rather than all the way upstairs and slept out here." I gestured to the blanket and pillow.

"Oh, well isn't that so gentlemanly of you, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson smiled widely at me. "Though, I'm a tad surprised that Maxine would drink so much... she's never done that before as far as I know."

"Just got carried away, I suppose," John said.

"Yes," I murmured, getting up and crossing the room to pick up my violin.

I perched it against my chin and lifted the new bow. After whipping it through the air once, I slid it across the strings. It made them sing so smoothly and clearly that it made me smile. Yet even as the grin hit me, turmoil began to bubble inside me.

 _I can't think about this right now,_ I thought. _The case. The phone. Focus on that._

With that, I began to play, running the bow across the strings as my fingers danced across the neck, letting an entirely new song bloom. I played on and on, even after John finished making breakfast and offered me a plate. I grabbed some blank sheet music after a moment, eager to focus on nothing but the music and the case of Irene Adler's phone.

And not about how much I wanted to kiss Maxine Watson again.

* * *

 _Maxine_

My head pounded as I sat up, groaning and rubbing my eyes. The last time I felt this awful was when I'd caught a horrific flu bug and was stuck home for nearly a week straight in Japan. Miyako had to come bring me soup and crackers. I could still recall her teasing me the entire time she took care of me.

After a moment, I managed to put how horrid my body felt aside and examined my surroundings.

I wasn't in my room.

Blinking blearily, I tried to make sense of where I was. When it finally struck me, I gave an audible gasp and looked down at myself then around the room again. This was Sherlock's room and Sherlock's bed. I was still in my Christmas sweater and jeans, so I supposed that was a good thing, but how did I get here? _Why_ was I here?

The last thing I could remember was telling John goodnight. Everything after that was a bizarre blur that I couldn't make sense of.

 _What the hell did I do?_

Slightly wobbly and grimacing in pain, I slipped out of the bed and began to stumble toward the door. Part of me was tempted to grab one of Sherlock's robes as chills ran along my body, but I decided against it. I'd already imposed on my flatmate enough, waking up in his bed...

I opened the door and squinted in the light of the kitchen. The smell of scrambled eggs and sausage struck me and it was simultaneously delightful and nauseating. John and Mrs. Hudson were both sitting at the kitchen table eating. A rather somber-sounding violin song came floating from the living room, where I guessed Sherlock was playing.

"There she is," John said, grinning toward me with both amusement and concern. "How d'you feel?"

I paused, leaning on the wall and considering for a moment.

"Like I've had a good thrashing from that Golem bloke," I finally replied in a rasp.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I remember the first time I had an awful hangover. One of the prices of growing older, I'm afraid."

"Mm..." I shook my head and stumbled into the kitchen before plopping down beside John. "I'm not sure I've ever had that much to drink in one sitting, to be honest."

"You should probably thank Sherlock for taking care of you," John said with a small laugh.

I blinked again and looked from my brother to Sherlock. The detective was in the living room standing in front of a stand with some sheet music on it. I could see that it was once blank and he'd filled several lines with his own notes. When his name was mentioned, he paused to make more notes on the paper, but didn't look toward us.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "Haven't heard that one before."

"You composing?" John queried.

"Helps me think," Sherlock replied.

He put the pen down and glanced back toward me. "You should probably have some protein... John said you liked eggs."

"I-I do," I stammered before shaking my head, trying to make my thoughts make sense. "I'm sorry—you took care of me last night?"

Sherlock had raised his bow again, but at my question he froze in place for a moment. He slowly lowered his instrument and turned to full face me. His sharp pale green eyes searched my face intently and he tilted his head slightly.

"You... you don't remember?" he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Uh..." I glanced around at everyone as they all stared at me. "I remember John telling me 'Merry Christmas,' I replied in kind and... and that's it. I was waking up in your bed next thing I knew."

"Oh." Sherlock turned around, lifting the violin again. I wasn't certain if I was imagining things, but his expression had looked a bit disappointed and upset before he faced away from us. "Well, you drank too much of the sake and ended up vomiting out here. The sound brought me out and I saw you were in no state to get up the steps so I carried you to my bed."

"Oh..." I frowned and furrowed my brow. Something about Sherlock's words seemed off. Part of me could recall vomiting, but it wasn't out here... "Well, that's embarrassing."

"You've done worse," John assured.

I rolled my eyes at him as I grabbed a plate and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto it. "But Sherlock, where did you sleep?"

"Sofa," Sherlock replied calmly.

I looked toward the sofa and saw a blanket and pillow. I also saw that Sherlock had opened my gift—the wrapping paper and box were on the coffee table.

"You opened your present," I said.

Sherlock paused in playing. The tune had gotten oddly sadder and more lamenting. He glanced back at me while lifting the bow in his hand. "Ah, yes. I was curious, sorry I didn't wait."

"Do... do you like it?" I asked nervously.

Sherlock met my eyes finally. He gave me a brief but genuine smile.

"I do," he said. "Very much."

I smiled back, but he turned away again, raising his new bow to continue playing. I rubbed my brow before beginning to eat. There was something I wasn't remembering—something important. It was the same sensation I would get when going to the market and forgetting my list; like standing in the checkout line _knowing_ there was something I was missing.

"Sherlock, you said composing helps you think," John said, looking toward him. "What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock abruptly spun around and put his violin and bow down on his chair. He strode into the kitchen, pointing at John's open laptop screen.

"The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he said quickly.

"Yeah, it's faulty," John explained, looking confused. "Can't seem to fix it."

Sherlock pulled a mobile from his pocket—Irene's mobile.

The sight of it sent a crushing weight into the pit of my stomach and against my chest. Of course, that's why I couldn't stop drinking the sake last night. I had so desperately wanted this feeling to go away—to numb the pain that seemed to be getting worse and worse.

"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message," Sherlock breathed, typing into the device.

"Hmm?" John looked more perplexed than ever.

"1895," I murmured. "He thinks it's the passcode for the mobile."

There was a warning beep from the phone in Sherlock's hand and his face fell. He exhaled through his nose and turned around, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

"Just faulty," he said.

"Right..." John sighed, casting me a look with a perked brow.

I shrugged in response and ate some more eggs, though they tasted like nothing now.

"Right, well, I'm going out for a bit," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond. He picked up his violin and began to play the lamenting song. I looked at his back and swallowed a mouthful of eggs with some difficulty. Was this sad tune for Irene? Was he mourning her?

"I should... I should get freshened up," I said, getting to my feet.

I managed to only wobble a little bit as I went to the bathroom, intent on sitting in a shower with hot water streaming over me. Perhaps the heat of it would make this horrifically cold feeling inside me go away.

* * *

 _ **A/N::: You have no IDEA how much I've been looking forward to sharing this part with you guys. Sorry I'm such a tease with the cliff hanger, but I hope you all enjoyed their first smooch! (Honestly it kind of just happened when I first wrote it, and I tried a version without it but I find this first kiss is just too perfect.)**_


	33. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 7

_John_

It was New Years Eve and as I headed out of the flat to go grab some food for the evening, I frowned slightly. Ever since Christmas, both Sherlock and Maxine had been acting strange. Sherlock wasn't eating and he continued to compose music with his violin for most hours of the day. He would get into moods like this every now and then, but this was the longest one had ever lasted.

Meanwhile, Maxine was clearly worried for him. She would attempt to gain his attention or get him to eat. At first, the detective politely declined. Then, he moved to just ignoring her. And finally, just yesterday, he yelled at her to leave him alone. I'd nearly went across the room to break Sherlock's violin over his head. My sister appeared hurt for a brief moment, then her face steeled over to something unreadable.

It was like the two of them were going backwards, back to before Maxine went to Japan and was sealed off and indifferent to the world and when they first met Sherlock and he was cold and cruel.

I could only assume that Sherlock was in mourning. I'd never seen him react to any woman like he did Irene Adler. I'd even consulted with Mrs. Hudson earlier today.

"Listen," I had said, approaching her while she was in our kitchen and keeping my voice low. "Has he ever had _any_ kind of..." I sighed, feeling a bit silly, "...girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Hudson said, frowning in thought and shaking her head.

I gave another more frustrated sigh. "How can we not know?"

"He's Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "How will we _ever_ know what goes on in that funny old head of his?"

I gave our landlady a sad smile. "Right. See ya."

I was eager to get out of the flat for a bit. Between Sherlock and Maxine, it was far too awkward in there. I always wondered if Maxine had developed a crush on our detective flatmate, especially after how much she drank Christmas Eve. She insisted nothing happened that night between her and Sherlock, but I had some suspicions.

"John?"

I was so used to people knowing my face by now that a stranger saying my name didn't really phase me.

"Yeah," I replied, "Hello."

I turned around to see a rather beautiful woman with long dark hair smiling at me. Her eyes were glimmering with flirtatious intent.

"Hello!" I repeated, wondering if it wasn't actually New Years Eve and in fact my birthday.

"Do you have any plans for New Years?" the woman asked as she strode closer.

"Er, nothing fixed," I replied hastily. "Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon. You have any ideas?"

"One," the woman said, looking over her shoulder toward the road.

I followed her gaze and then let out a sigh of exasperation when a black car pulled up and stopped beside us.

"You know, Mycroft could just phone me, if he didn't have this bloody power complex," I muttered sourly.

The car took us a good distance from the flat—more specifically to the empty shell of Battersea Power Station. When the vehicle pulled up in the building, the woman and I exited the car and she led me through the expansive, abandoned structure.

"Couldn't we just go to a cafe?" I asked. "Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."

The woman came to a halt, typing on her phone as she gestured ahead of herself. Ahead, the building narrowed to a hall that led to another section of the building.

"Through here," she said.

I gave her an look that I hoped showed her how annoyed I was by all of this before continuing on. Now alone, I strode through the hall to the other side. When it bloomed open to a large, empty room, I spoke out before bothering to look for Mycroft to direct my words at.

"He's writing sad music; doesn't eat; barely talks—only to correct the television or yell at my sister," I said, walking further into the room.

On the other side, a figure began to walk out from the shadows.

Assuming it was Mycroft, I eyed it and went on. "I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's Sherlock. Other than the yelling at Maddie bit, he does all that anyw..."

I trailed off the figure came into full view.

It was Irene Adler.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she said. Thankfully, she was fully clothed this time in a fancy coat and dress.

I stared mutely at her for several seconds before managing to find my voice.

"Tell him you're alive," I breathed.

"He'd come after me," Irene said, shaking her head.

" _I'll_ come after you if you don't," I snarled.

"Mm, I believe you," Irene replied.

"You were dead on a slab," I accused, raising my voice. "It was definitely you."

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," Irene said.

"And I bet you know the record-keeper," I countered.

"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear." Irene clasped her gloved hands in front of her neatly.

"Then how come _I_ can see you and I don't even want to?" I snapped.

"Look, I made a mistake," Irene said, a hint of pleading in her voice. "I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need you help."

"No." My tone was flat and uncaring. I glared at the woman across from me with growing rage.

She'd forced herself into our lives, causing nothing but distortion and chaos. Regardless if she was the object of Sherlock's affections, she'd forced him to care then made him believe she was dead. Everything she did was in an effort to shock—to steal the spotlight and deliver a spectacular and grandiose show.

"It's for his own safety," Irene insisted.

"So's this: tell him you're alive," I countered.

"I can't," Irene replied.

My breath was coming in heavy now with my rising anger. Was this woman truly so callous and cruel? Did she enjoy toying with people's emotions like this? Did she see this as just some game to be played?

"Fine," I snapped. "I'll tell him, and I still won't help you." I turned to leave the room.

"What do I say?" Irene asked helplessly.

"What do you _normally_ say?" I barked, whirling to face her again. "You've texted him a _lot._."

Irene pulled out her phone and stared at the screen. "Just the usual stuff."

"There is no 'usual' in this case," I told her.

Irene continued to stare at her phone. "'Good morning,' 'I like your funny hat,' 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.' 'You looked sexy on Crimewatch,' 'Let's have dinner,' 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.'"

I gaped at the woman in disbelief. "You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?"

" _At_ him," Irene corrected. "He's only replied once."

"No, Sherlock always replies—to _everything._ " I argued. "He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?" Irene asked with a slight tilt of her head.

"...I don't know," I admitted, eyeing her. "Maybe."

"Are you jealous?" Irene asked with a smirk.

"We're not a couple," I said tightly.

Irene's smile widened. "How about your sister, then?"

I knew that my face was flushing. I balled my hands into fists. "You said he replied once. What did he say?"

Irene's smug expression melted away. She pursed her lips and glanced at her mobile briefly before replying, "'Stop.'"

"Stop?" I echoed.

Irene shrugged. "I listened. I stopped."

"But why?" I said. "Why would he say that? _Just_ that?

"Oh, come on, surely you know," Irene sighed.

"Know what?" I was starting to get frustrated with her little game.

Irene rolled her eyes. "I thought I could show him what a real woman was like. Mature, sexy, experienced... but even when I was naked in front of him, there was no interest, not in _that_ way. I saw how he was when Neilson threatened to shoot her. I saw how he looked at her. Sherlock Holmes lost what little of a heart he has to your sister a long time ago, didn't he?"

My jaw went slack and I was at a loss for words. I knew Maxine's drinking on Christmas Eve had to do with Sherlock. I knew she was attached to him and it worried me. I'd seen how Sherlock treated Molly, I didn't want the same for Maxine. But if Irene was right, if Sherlock had feelings for my sister, that changed things. That brought it to a whole new level—one I wasn't certain I liked.

Irene typed away on her phone briefly then showed my the screen. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" She pressed the send button.

I turned away, running one hand through my hair. I thought I knew Maxine better than anyone, but for the life of me I couldn't quite figure out what was going on with her and Sherlock.

Before anything else could be said, a female orgasmic sigh came from a short distance away—just outside the door and in the hall. I could hear footsteps quickly retreating, knowing it had to be Sherlock. I began to walk toward the door, but Irene held up a hand to stop him.

"He'll need time to digest all this," Irene said. "I'm sure he's always known, deep down, but for someone to say it out loud makes it a lot more real." She smiled humorlessly. "And a lot more scary for someone like Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

 _Sherlock_

I took long steps down Baker Street, my heart thrumming in my ears. I could barely take in my surroundings and let my muscle memory do the work for me. Irene had seen it before I had—or at least before I let myself _feel_ it. That all this time I'd spent with Maxine something had bloomed in what I had assumed was my hollow ribcage. Turns out there was a heart in there and Maxine had somehow breathed life into it.

Running a hand through my hair, I debated on what to do next. Maxine didn't remember our encounter on Christmas Eve. I could tell she was speaking the truth over Christmas breakfast with her startled expression and foggy confusion in her eyes. I could tell her and see what her reaction was, but a large part of me shrank away from the idea. Doing that left me open—it was laying my soul bare before her to admit that I'd lost self control and...

Arriving at the front door of 221B, I pulled out my key and raised it to the lock with a slightly trembling hand. I had to figure out my plan before John got home. However, as I neared the key to the knob, I froze when I noticed that it didn't require to be unlocked.

The door had been jimmied open.

The fog in my mind evaporated and my gaze sharpened. I carefully pushed the door in and stepped inside. One quick glance around showed me that the interior door connecting our flat with 221A and 221C was also slightly ajar. I put a hand to the opaque glass window and swung it open as quietly as possible.

Not a thief. There was too much brute force in the opening of 221B's door—they used a crowbar of some kind. Thieves were more prone to using picks instead. I stepped into the hallway that joined all the flats and noticed that the door to 221A was wide open. Partway into the hall was a plastic bucket and I carefully walked over to it to inspect the contents.

Inside were various cleaning materials: rubber gloves, a duster, a bottle of disinfectant, and a few rags. I reached inside and grabbed the small spray can of sanitizer. After examining the warning labels on the side instructing people to seek immediate medical attention if the chemical got in their eyes or was swallowed, I slid the can into my trousers' pocket.

Turning back toward the stairs, I spotted a couple of scuff marks on the wall just above the risers. They could have only been made by someone who walked the steps awkwardly—someone who was going up backwards and having to feel their way up each step and a second set of scuffs that suggested they were walking forward, but something was throwing them off balance.

They were carrying something.

There was a small indentation in the wallpaper about waist-high off the ground. I went up a couple of the steps quietly and peered at it before putting my finger against it.

It was a nail mark; it had been made by someone desperately fighting from being hauled upstairs. Maxine didn't have nails long enough to make this indent, which meant it had to have been Mrs. Hudson.

The men weren't carrying something, they were carrying some _one._

Three men total. I couldn't hear any sound of fighting or struggle upstairs and the front door had still been ajar. It meant they had guns, and they had both Maxine and Mrs. Hudson upstairs, waiting for me.

A slow, cold fury began to seep through me. I gripped the banister tightly for a moment before ascending the stairs. No point in keeping them waiting—in fact I was eager to meet the men who dragged my landlady up the steps in such a fashion.

Once I reached the landing, I slowly pushed the door to the living room open. In front of the fireplace, Mrs. Hudson was sitting on a dining chair facing the sofa. Directly behind her stood Neilson, the American CIA agent who led the raid on Irene's house. He held a pistol with a large silencer on the muzzle and was aiming it at the back of Mrs. Hudson's head. One of Neilson's men was standing at the window while the other stood near the sliding door to the kitchen. Both turned to face me as I strode into the room, my hands clasped behind my back.

Mrs. Hudson had been crying softly, but when she noticed me it turned into sobs.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

"Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson," I said, keeping my voice calm. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." I lifted my gaze to glare at Neilson. "What a tender world that would be."

Mrs. Hudson continued to cry as she stared up at me. "Oh, please. Sorry, Sherlock."

I wanted to tell her she had nothing to apologize for. I wanted to grab Neilson by the throat and slam him into the dining table. Briefly, I allowed my eyes to search the rest of the flat. Maxine had been here when I left. Where was she?

The past few days, I tried to distance myself from her. She still didn't recall the night of Christmas Eve and despite the longing in my heart to experience that kiss again, I thought perhaps it was for the best. Sentiment... it was something that I couldn't allow. It led to mistakes, it led to disaster. So when Maxine tried to speak to me, tried to get me to eat or take on a new case, I declined. Then I ignored. Then I yelled. Admittedly, I regretted the last bit.

"Looking for something?" Neilson sneered. "So am I. I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes."

Oddly, Neilson had a blossoming black eye and a split lip. I didn't think that Mrs. Hudson could have done that. And the man over by the window had a tear in his jacket and his tie was loose while his sported some scratches on his face. When he moved, he held himself in such a way that told me he'd taken a blow to the ribs.

"Then why didn't you ask for it?" I asked coolly as I walked closer and held out my right hand toward Mrs. Hudson.

She instantly clung onto it, whimpering. I gently turned back the sleeve of her right arm and saw bruises on her wrist. My jaw clenched.

"Sher..." Mrs. Hudson sobbed.

"I've been asking this one," Neilson said. "She doesn't seem to know anything."

I lifted my head to see that the right shoulder of Mrs. Hudson's cardigan was ripped at the seam, exposing her skin underneath.

"But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?" Neilson snarled.

I looked up higher to see a cut on my landlady's right cheek. Flicking my eyes to the side, I noted the ring on the third finger of Neilson's hand holding his pistol. There was blood on it.

I lifted my eyes back up to meet Neilson's.

"I believe I do," I murmured.

I released Mrs. Hudson's hand and straightened up, placing both my hands behind my back again. I glared at Neilson.

"Where's Max?" I asked in a low, ice cold voice.

Neilson smirked briefly, but the action seemed to cause him some pain, for he winced. "The redhead? She put up quite a fight." He turned to nod at the man near the kitchen.

The third man, this one with a a slight limp, slid open the kitchen doors. My heart hiccuped when I spotted Maxine laying prone on the kitchen floor, her face bloodied. I could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, but otherwise she was motionless.

"Tough one, Maxine Watson," Neilson said. "I'm quite curious where she learned to fight."

Mrs. Hudson sobbed again, shaking her head and closing her eyes tightly. I was beginning to think that her tears weren't for herself, but for the woman laying in the kitchen with blood smeared on the floor around her.

"She'll wake eventually," Neilson said with a small shrug.

I took a deep, steadying breath. Slowly, I raised my eyes to look directly at Neilson, roving my eyes over his head.

 _Carotid Artery. Skull. Eyes._

My gaze dropped to his chest.

 _Artery. Lungs. Ribs._

Neilson would wish he never stepped foot in 221B Baker Street. I looked back into the kitchen, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It seemed regular, but all the same...

"Get rid of your boys," I said, keeping my eyes on Maxine.

"Why?" Neilson said.

I turned my irascible gaze back on him. "I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room."

Neilson hesitated briefly, then glanced at his colleagues. "You two, go to the car."

"Then get into the car and drive away," I said tightly. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work." I clicked the k of the last work loudly.

The two men exchanged a look then both proceeded to leave the room. I waited until I heard the door leading out to the street shut before speaking again.

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me," I told Neilson.

He scoffed. "So you can point a gun at me?"

I took a step back and spread my arms to the side. "I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?" Neilson asked, but his tone suggested I had no choice.

"Oh, I insist," I replied.

Neilson came around from behind Mrs. Hudson. She whimpered nervously as she looked from me to the motionless Maxine in the other room.

"Don't do anything," Mrs. Hudson begged softly.

Neilson walked over to me, holstering his gun. He patted my breast pocket before flicking open my coat. I stood meekly by, my arms still spread. Neilson walked around behind me, patting for any hidden weapon at my back. I took this moment to look at Maxine again. She was moving—slowly lifting her knee up and shifting in discomfort.

I slowly began to bend my right arm toward myself. Then, as quickly as I could, I reached into my coat pocket that Neilson hadn't gotten to yet and pulled free the can of sanitizer. I sprayed the contents directly into Neilson's eyes. The man screamed, and as he stumbled, I reared back and savagely slammed my head into his face. Neilson collapsed back onto the coffee table, unconscious.

"Moron," I spat as I placed the can on the dining table.

"Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said as she got up out of her chair.

I was already rushing into the kitchen. I wanted to see to Mrs. Hudson's wounds as well, but Maxine's state seemed a bit more critical. The two of us knelt down beside her just as she groaned and began to blink her eyes open.

"Max," I said, reaching forward and gently gripping her shoulder. "Don't move just yet."

"Where's that bastard...?" Maxine rasped.

I ignored her question for the moment. I roved my eyes over her carefully. The blood on her face was mainly coming from her scalp and nose, though since the bruising wasn't awful there probably weren't any broken bones. Her T-shirt was ripped at the neckline, exposing the top of a modest blue bra, the left strap of which was completely visible. There wasn't any more blood, but her arms were bruised and it wasn't possible for me to tell if they hit her in the abdomen without lifting her shirt.

My free hand clenched tightly as I shot a glare over my shoulder at Neilson. He would pay, but for now I had to see to Maxine and Mrs. Hudson. Of course, there was no harm in being precautious.

"Stay with her," I said to my landlady and quickly got to my feet.

A few minutes later, Neilson was effectively duct taped to the dining chair he'd put Mrs. Hudson in. Maxine had managed to sit up, but she had a bad concussion at best. Her eyes were bleary and her expression was tight with discomfort. Mrs. Hudson got a glass of water and knelt down beside her.

"Here, dearie, take a drink," Mrs. Hudson urged gently.

Maxine allowed her to bring the glass to her mouth and took a few sips. She blinked a few times and her gaze fixated on Neilson.

"Should've had my dagger," she muttered.

I quickly grabbed a piece of paper from the desk near the window and wrote the words: "CRIME IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DISTURB" on it before quickly trotting downstairs and taping it to the door that led to 221B. John should hopefully be home soon and this would give him some notice. Once that was done, I headed back up the stairs two at a time.

Neilson's eyes were open now, but his mouth had a strip of duct tape over it, keeping him from making a sound. Maxine was now moved to the living room, seated on the sofa while Mrs. Hudson carefully cleaned the blood from her face with a damp rag.

"She's not bleeding anymore, thank goodness," Mrs. Hudson said. "She was out when they brought me up here. I remember hearing some sort of commotion but before I could come check, they were... they were in my flat."

I went over to gently stroke Mrs. Hudson's face. Not a lot of people put up with me, but Mrs. Hudson was one of the few who did. I appreciated her more than I could properly express.

"It's all right now," I assured her. "You're all right. There wasn't anything more you could do."

"When Neilson couldn't handle me alone, he had his boys help," Maxine said, her voice still weak. "Didn't want to kill me... they wanted the phone."

"Of course they did," I snarled as I turned to glare at the unconscious Neilson in the chair. "We best get Lestrade over here."

I pulled Neilson's gun from my waistband and my phone from my pocket. I punched in Lestrade's speed dial and put it to my ear as I aimed the gun at Neilson's head, more than tempted to pull the trigger.

"What's going on?"

John came trotting into the living room, his expression anxious. He spotted Neilson and blinked in surprise.

"Jeez," he breathed. "What the hell is happening?"

"Mrs. Hudson and Max have been attacked by an American," I said as the phone began to ring. "I'm restoring balance to the universe."

John turned and spotted Mrs. Hudson and Maxine. He instantly rushed over to the sofa and knelt down in front of them.

"My God, are you two all right?" he asked breathlessly. He glared over his shoulder at Neilson. "What did they do to you?"

Mrs. Hudson broke down into tears again. John looked back at her and gripped her knees as Maxine wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, I'm just being silly," Mrs. Hudson said, sniffling.

"No, no," John said, shaking his head. He looked over at Maxine. "Is that blood?"

Maxine managed a smirk. Just the sight of it made my heart jump in my chest.

"Well, when three grown CIA agents go for you at once, it's hard to avoid a cut or two," she said.

"Th-three?" John stammered, looking back at me.

"The other two drove off. Might be back eventually," Sherlock said. "That's why I'm calling Lestrade. You should take Mrs. Hudson and Max downstairs and look after them."

John nodded and turned to help Mrs. Hudson to her feet. However, when he reached for Maxine, she shook her head.

"I'll stay up here, thanks," she said, her angry glare fixated on Neilson.

"Maddie, we have to see if I can take care of you or if you need hospital," John said sternly. "If you don't let me check, then we'll just have to send you to St. Bart's."

Maxine grimaced and sighed. "Fine."

John tugged her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her downstairs. Just when he and Mrs. Hudson reached the door, he turned to look back at me.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" John asked.

"I expect so," I replied. "Now go."

John held my gaze for a moment, then we both set our gazes on Neilson. Now the CIA agent had two murderous expressions aimed at him. Then, John turned and helped his sister through the door and down the steps, Mrs. Hudson just behind them.

"Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade," a voice said from my phone.

"Lestrade," I greeted, irritated with how long it took him to answer his office phone. "We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance."

"An ambulance?" Lestrade echoed in alarm as I turned away from Neilson and walked over to the dining table. "Are-are you all okay?"

"Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine," I assured him as I placed the pistol on the table. "No, it's the, uh... it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."

"What d'you mean?" Lestrade asked. "How badly?"

"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull... suspected punctured lung." I glanced over my shoulder at Neilson, who now looked quite nervous. "He fell out of a window."

Still looking into Neilson's eyes, I hung up the phone.

* * *

 _Maxine_

My head was throbbing when we reached the bottom of the steps and went around to the main hall to go to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"First aid?" John asked after he helped me over to the kitchen counter where I hoisted myself up to sit.

"Ah, in the cabinet by the fridge," Mrs. Hudson said, pointing.

John gathered the kit and strode back to us. He set it on the counter next to me and opened it, taking in its inventory. He then pulled out some cotton balls and antiseptic.

"Mrs. Hudson first," I told him when he started coming toward me with it.

"Oh, Maxine, you're far worse off than me," Mrs. Hudson argued.

"Who knows what was on that ring of his," I said, waving her and John off.

Before anything else could happen, a shape plummeted down past the window over the kitchen sink. There was a loud crashing sound, swiftly followed by an agonized cry.

"Ooh." Mrs. Hudson looked out the window nervously. "That was right on my bins."

I nearly laughed. Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to merely be worried about her bins and not about anything we just went through. John, knowing he wasn't going to let me look at him until he took care of our landlady, turned his attention to her and began to gently disinfect her cuts and inspect her bruises.

Pursing my lips, I glanced down and noticed that my shirt had been torn rather badly. My bra was exposed and at the sight of it my face burned with embarrassment.

"Oh, bloody hell," I rasped as I tried to tug my shirt back into place.

For Sherlock to come back and see me in such a state... I closed my eyes and tried to purge the image from my head.

"Maddie."

Startled, I lifted my eyes to see John standing in front of me with one of Mrs. Hudson's robes. I gave a humorless laugh and grabbed it, carefully pulling it on. My body ached and I winced as I pulled my arms through the sleeves. John sighed and pulled out a small pocket torch from his pocket.

"Mrs. Hudson's all taken care of," he said. "Let me check if you have a concussion."

I nodded and let John shine the light in my eyes while holding his other finger up for me to track with my gaze. He tested each eye twice, the second time with slightly more deliberation, then he sighed and turned the torch off.

"You do have a concussion," he said. "Which means rest. Lots of it."

I groaned.

"Maddie," John scolded, "you're lucky you didn't end up with worse. Did they injure you... anywhere else?"

He spoke the words nervously and suddenly I realized what he must think, what with my shirt being torn.

"No, no," I insisted. "A few punches to the gut... but Neilson smacking me over the head with his pistol is what knocked me out."

More specifically, Neilson's men had to hold me so he could actually land a hit.

"Okay," John murmured. "Well if you feel pain anywhere else, let me know, understand? Now let's disinfect this gash..."

I remained still while John fussed over me. I knew it did him good to take care of people, especially me. It reasserted him as the older brother, which was a role he always adored.

John cleaned away the remaining blood that was on the side of my face and hair before applying a couple of stitches in the wound above my left ear. He checked each of my bruises in searches for any broken or fractured bones. Luckily, I'd gotten by without even a broken rib.

After John finished, the three of us sat at Mrs. Hudson's table and snacked on some leftover Christmas candies she had. There was eventually a knock on the door and John went to answer it. Lestrade came in, looking distraught. He took in Mrs. Hudson and me, his expression tightening.

"Bloody hell," he breathed. "Are you two all right?"

"Peachy," I replied, then held out a candy to him. "Butterscotch?"

Lestrade smiled slightly as he took it. "Nothing seems to bother you, does it, Maxine?"

"Don't make it sound like a good thing, Lestrade," John pressed.

"I just needed your statements," Lestrade said, looking between each of us.

"No, no you don't."

Blinking, I looked around Lestrade to see Sherlock beckoning the Inspector from the doorway.

"They've been through quite enough today, you can have it tomorrow," Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed and walked over toward him. "And exactly how many times _did_ he fall out the window?" he asked.

Sherlock let out a long exhale and shrugged. "It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count."

Lestrade shook his head and walked right by him and toward the door that led out to the street. Sherlock wiped his feet on the welcome mat before entering Mrs. Hudson's flat, closing the door behind him.

"Mrs. Hudson will have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John said. "We need to look after her."

"No," Mrs. Hudson protested, shaking her head and looking anxious.

"Of course, but she's fine," Sherlock said.

"No, she's not," John insisted. "Look at her."

Sherlock opened the fridge and peered inside before picking something up. John let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head.

"She's got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders," he added, looking at our landlady.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said, kicking the fridge shut and walking toward us. There was a mince pie in his hand and he took a bite from it.

"She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone," John exclaimed. "Where is it, anyway?"

"Safest place I know," Sherlock replied. He wiped some crumbs from his mouth and looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot," Mrs. Hudson said with a small laugh as she reached into her bra and pulled out the phone. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

I smiled lightly and leaned back in my chair. "She's a resourceful one."

"Shame on you, John Watson." Sherlock shot a glare toward John as he walked around and put a protective arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders.

"Shame on _me?_ " John exclaimed.

Sherlock pulled Mrs. Hudson closer to him. "Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?" he demanded sternly. "England would fall."

John smiled as Mrs. Hudson laughed and stroked Sherlock's hand. Sherlock chuckled before stepping away from her and toward me. He peered down at my face and gently lifted my hair to peer at John's stitching.

"It's not so bad," I assured him.

"Let's get you in bed so you can rest, shall we?" he said.

He held out his hand and smiled at me. I sighed and grasped his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. Back in our flat, Sherlock made sure to even escort me up to my bedroom. John went to making something for dinner and Sherlock mentioned going out to properly hide the phone, but for now he was seeing to me.

"So..." I murmured as I opened my bedroom door and walked inside, "...are you done brooding?"

The last time we spoke was yesterday, when he was standing near the window, staring out at the street. I'd come to his side, once again worried that he hadn't eaten his breakfast. John and I ended up staying home instead of going to see Harry because of how worried we were for him.

"Come on, you should have something," I had urged him gently.

"Will you just shut up, and leave me alone?!" Sherlock had shouted back, whirling to glare at me.

So I did. I was hurt at first, but then I reminded myself that this was Sherlock Holmes. We might have grown closer over the years, but he was still... _him._ Still insensitive to poor Molly, still rude to his flatmates, still stuck inside his own head.

Back in the present, Sherlock hesitated on the threshold of my room, which was something that he'd never done before. His pale green eyes darted about the walls and furniture, as if he were searching for any little thing to keep his gaze occupied. I sat down on my bed, frowning at him again.

"What's wrong?" I probed.

Sherlock sighed and stepped inside the room, gently closing the door behind him. After hesitating for another few seconds, he met my eyes.

"Irene Adler is alive," he said.

The contents of my stomach were replaced with stone. I blinked a few times, staring at him in astonishment.

"But she was... you saw her dead in the morgue," I whispered.

"She's craftier than we thought," Sherlock replied. "I saw her with my own eyes. She snagged John... she wants the phone back."

I let out a small breath of disbelief. "I suppose we shouldn't be surprised."

Sherlock shrugged. He was looking down at his feet for a moment before he finally sighed and lifted his head. He locked his pale green eyes on me and I froze in his gaze.

"I..." Sherlock began, but had to take a breath and start again. "I am... sorry I yelled at you yesterday. I know you just..."

"Care?" I supplied.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and regarded me with slight confusion for a moment. Then he nodded.

"Yes," he said. "You do, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Sherlock," I said, shaking my head. "You're my best friend."

Sherlock eyed me carefully and asked, "Do you truly not remember Christmas Eve night?"

The intent in his eyes was like fire. I blinked a few times, trying to dig into the fuzzy memories. Something important clearly happened between us, but what?

"I... I remember telling John Merry Christmas," I said slowly, furrowing my brow as I concentrated. "I was... I was looking at the presents—at _your_ present I got for you. I... I got up..." I rubbed my forehead. It was like trying to piece together a dream that I could barely recall. "I went... to your room."

I said the last part with sudden realization. I lifted my gaze to Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway. He was staring at me, clearly hesitant about something. His eyes seemed... pleading; like he was begging me to piece everything together so he didn't have to explain.

"I opened the door..." My voice dropped to a low murmur as pictures started coming back to me.

The detective took a few steps forward, staring down into my eyes with his piercing pale green gaze.

"And?" he prompted, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"You... were cross with me," I said, giving a nervous chuckle. "Don't blame you. You said I got sick, didn't you? All over your floor, then?"

"Before that," Sherlock said.

"I scolded you," I replied. "For shutting me out. And then I talked about Irene Adler for a small bit... and... and..."

My heart began to accelerate. I clutched my knees as heat flooded my face. The sensation came back to me before the actual visual memory. There was Sherlock's strong form against mine, then his warm hand behind my neck, tilting my head back. Then his lips—soft and intent—against mine.

Sherlock slowly sat on the bed beside me, eyeing me warily. I glanced at him, a flurry of emotions rampaging through my ribcage.

"Then I almost vomited in your mouth," I finally managed to whisper.

Sherlock gave a small scoff that was both disbelieving and amused.

"That's what you take away from it?" he said.

"W-well what _am_ I supposed to take away from it?" I stammered. "Y-you... we..."

"Kissed, yes," Sherlock finished for me. His wariness was starting to turn into impatience.

I blinked at him for a moment before letting out a sharp exhale. "S-so... so..."

Sherlock sighed and glanced down at his feet for a moment. He was only a few millimeters away and I could feel his body heat on my bare arm.

"When I saw you today..." he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I felt something... snap inside me. Even if it had just been Mrs. Hudson who was harmed, I'm fairly certain I would have thrown the man out the window still, but... but seeing you hurt and so..."

"Helpless?" I offered, slightly bitter.

Sherlock gave me a pained look. "I don't want to say that, but..."

"What are you getting at?" I queried in a small voice.

"Okay." Sherlock suddenly got to his feet and started pacing around my room. "I've never had this issue before—I've never been fixated on a _person_ like how I fixate on a case. You... you've always been this unanswered question in my head and I can't _stand_ it."

He paused in front of me, turning to face me fully. He was panting slightly and his eyes looked manic.

"At first I thought it was the mystery behind you; you're past in Japan and with the Yakuza, but no. No, it was something beyond that—it was something beyond anything I've ever encountered."

Sherlock gripped my shoulders and leaned his head down toward me, his eyes darting between the two of mine as if searching for something. My breath quickened at his touch and I stared back at him, waiting.

"It took Irene Adler to make me realize the truth of it," Sherlock murmured. "Every time she texted me, every time I remembered her grand entrance, all it did was make me think of you."

His words dropped on me like a physical weight. It was both the cleansing sense of relief but also the flooding of some new, wild emotion I didn't understand. It beckoned me to press my lips to Sherlock's again.

"I didn't know what to think when you didn't remember Christmas Eve," Sherlock admitted. "I thought I was happy that you forgot; it made it like it never happened. I distanced myself because... because I was scared. Seeing you hurt today forced my mind to realize that's a possibility—something could happen to you one day and you could just be gone." Sherlock's eyes shimmered slightly. "I never want that to happen. I can't bear the very thought of it. Especially without knowing how much I..."

He released my shoulders and took a few steps back, shaking his head.

"Romantic inclinations is meant to just be a chemical reaction—something that sparks between people to bring about reproduction," he said. "Well... that's what I always thought it was. I always thought myself to be superior to that, to be immune to it. I thought it was a weakness, something to distract me from what's important."

"And... and now?" I breathed.

Sherlock met my eyes. "I must confess, being in the throws of it certainly forced me to at least _consider_ alternate possibilities."

I gave out a small laugh that was more nerves than anything else. Sherlock smiled back at me briefly, but then his expression grew serious.

"What... what do you make of all this, then?" he asked hesitantly, as if he were afraid of my answer.

I looked him over as I clasped my hands together on my lap. "I suppose it's the same as what I told you last night. You brought color to my world, and you taught me how to make it stay."

"While I know that you're quite fond of your metaphors and similes—and your creative side is part of why I'm so fond of _you_ —but could you..." Sherlock shifted nervously and took in a sharp breath. "Could you give me a clear response?"

"A clear response to what?" I countered. "You simply asked what I made of all this." A small, devious smirk started playing on my lips. It wasn't often one got the chance to tease Sherlock Holmes.

"You're really going to make me come out and say it, aren't you?" Sherlock sighed.

I merely kept smiling at him.

"Perhaps I should regret helping you come out of your shell, so to speak," Sherlock said. "You're getting more cheeky by the day."

He clasped his hands behind himself and looked to the side to let out a long breath through his nose. He stared at my drawings on the wall, including the sketch of him. Sherlock bit his lip, then faced toward me again.

"You should know, I've never done this before, and I doubt you have either," he said quickly. "So I'll just say it, then, shall I? Will you be my... my girlfriend?"

I knew what was coming, but at the same time, it robbed my breath from me. I stared at him for a moment before smiling again and nodding my head. Sherlock's face broke into a huge beam and he took a small step back while bending his knees. It was a triumphant gesture I'd seen him make when making a breakthrough deduction on a case.

"Ah, good," he said, giving a brisk nod as he tried to regain his composure. "Er, yes, very good. Really, really good."

I chuckled. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Sherlock replied. "Yes, I'm... everything's fantastic." He let out another sharp exhale, this time through his lips while saying, "Hooo!" like he'd just ran a marathon.

"Sherlock," I said, gaining his attention fully. "I'll be honest with you, I've no clue how to date."

Sherlock laughed. "That's all right, neither do I. We'll learn as we go."

Suddenly, Sherlock's face broke into abrupt realization and he held up his hands toward me. "Your gift! Your Christmas gift, you haven't had a chance to open it! I'll fetch it, just-just stay there."

I chuckled, giddy from his antics. As he rushed out of the room, I sighed contently and flopped back on my bed. The action was too fast and sent pain jolting through my head along with a wave of nausea, but it didn't bother me for long. I was flooded with euphoria, astounded and beyond pleased with Sherlock's confession. I didn't know how we were going to pull of dating, but I assumed our improvisation skills would help us.

"Oh," I said, suddenly thinking of an important factor. "John..."

I wasn't sure how John was going to react to the news of us dating. He seemed to have been giving mixed messages over the past few months in regards to me being _anyone's_ girlfriend, let alone Sherlock's... We lived in the same flat, we were around each other constantly... I didn't know what this posed in the long run.

But I certainly wouldn't change a thing.


	34. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 8

_Sherlock_

I stepped back into 221B's living room after the sun had already set and it was close to midnight. John was just stepping out of the kitchen, stirring a drink. We hadn't really spoken since everything happened and I had yet to tell him about how Maxine agreed to be my girlfriend.

"Where is it now?" John asked, meaning the phone, no doubt.

"Where no-one will look," I assured, a bit relieved he didn't instantly ask about Maxine.

"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures," John mused.

"Yes, it is," I confirmed with a tight nod.

"So, she's alive then," John murmured, meeting my eyes. "How are we feeling about that?"

I adverted my gaze and swallowed painfully as I pulled my coat off. I abruptly got the urge to attempt what Maxine always did when she wanted to avoid verbal conflict and take out my mobile to tinker with it.

"Was she right?" John pressed.

When I turned my head, his gaze was burrowing into me. I shifted uncomfortably on the spot, worrying the fabric of my shirt with my fingers.

"The traditional thing is to ask for permission first, isn't it?" I murmured. "Typically from the father, but in this case... you."

John's mouth stretched into a tight line. He let a long exhale through his nose and stared at his socked feet for a moment. I watched his thumb rub over his fingers as he decided his next move.

"I... I suppose in some ways, you're good for her," John finally said. "You did manage to bring her out of her box."

John looked up at me again and his expression grew determined and stern. I met his eyes with as much calmness as I could muster, but I had to admit, this was terribly uncomfortable.

"But I also know how cruel you can be at times," John said. "With Molly, for instance. Maddie isn't like other women, Sherlock. If you shatter her, I don't know if the pieces would ever go back together, do you understand me?"

I took a few steps toward him, letting my own expression grow serious.

"You _know_ I'd never do anything to hurt her," I promised in a whisper.

John searched my face, his brows lowered skeptically. "Maybe not on purpose. Do you even know if Maddie feels the same way? If she fancied anyone, it would be you, but I'm not sure she's capable—"

"She agreed to be my girlfriend earlier today," I said softly, interrupting him.

John blinked and took a step back, clearly stunned. I furrowed my brow sheepishly as I waited for his response. I knew if I didn't tell him straight away that he'd be livid.

"She... she did?" he said.

I nodded. "Yes. We're... dating now."

John turned away from me putting his drink on the dining table before pacing for a few seconds while running his hands through his hair. After a moment, he stopped and faced me again. He pointed at me, almost accusingly.

"Did something happen on Christmas Eve?" he demanded.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and John's expression twisted in rising anger.

"Nothing serious!" I assured him, raising my hands in surrender. "She came to my room and we talked... and... I kissed her."

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes for a long moment, letting out a sharp breath through his lips.

"Let me get this straight..." He lowered his hands and glared at me. "You kissed my drunk sister."

I suddenly saw the reason behind John's anger. I lifted my arms again, this time pleadingly.

"No-no-no, it wasn't like that... it..." I sighed and put my hands on the dining table to lean on it. "She was... telling me about her own feelings. I... I had a short lapse in self-control."

"Dear God," John breathed, shaking his head. "You took advantage of her!"

"No!" I insisted. "No. Why-why would she be willing to date me if she saw it like that?"

"She doesn't know better!" John exclaimed. "Maddie has never dated in her life—she's never even _fancied_ anyone before! Not celebrities, not cute middle school boys, _no-_ one! She doesn't understand what's right and what's wrong with this thing!"

"John, I _promise_ you, I would never do anything to Max without her consent," I said sincerely. "You have to believe that. She's important to me; so are you."

John took a few deep breaths, still glaring at me. Finally he waved me off and plopped down in a chair by the dining table.

"It's not like I can tell Maddie not to date you... She's a grown woman who can make her own choices," John muttered. "This... this will take me some time to get used to."

"Thank you," I said, knowing this was John's way of giving his blessing.

Maxine came down the stairs at that point. She moved slowly and held the railing tightly. She was already in her pajamas—big T-shirt and baggy pajama pants. She looked between John and me and grimaced.

"I take it you know?" she asked her brother.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you kissed him," John said, snatching up his drink and heading for his chair.

"I didn't—" Maxine began but stopped. Perhaps she realized that telling John she didn't remember until today wasn't the best idea. She cleared her throat. "I didn't think that... you were ready to know."

John grunted in irritation.

"He thinks I took advantage of you," I whispered to her.

"What? No!" Maxine went over to John as he sat in his chair. "John, I kissed him back."

"You were drunk," John said.

"Yes, but now I'm sober and don't regret it," Maxine said.

"Look, I know that I can't tell you who to date but..." John sighed heavily. "Did it _have_ to be him?"

"Of course," Maxine replied. "It couldn't be anyone _but_ him."

"Can you at least stop this ridiculous act until—or rather _if—_ I... mess up?" I asked. "You said yourself that you can't tell Max who to date."

John finally met my eyes. "It just _had_ to be you didn't it?" he sighed, shaking his head.

"You're the one who told Sebastian we were together on that banker case," I reminded him.

"Ugh." John ran his hands through his hair. "Fine. Fine. Just... I'll try, all right?"

"That's all I'm asking," I replied.

Maxine smiled slyly at her brother. "I never gave you trouble for all of your girlfriends."

"Yes, well..." John shook his head. "Never mind. Let's just celebrate this New Year, shall we?"

"Mm, more sake?" Maxine said as she spotted the bottle in the kitchen. "Not sure if my stomach is ready for it."

"Then save it," I suggested. "Try some wine."

Maxine passed me a grin and headed into the kitchen. "If it isn't too terribly dry, then certainly."

"It's not my fault you only like sweet things," John countered.

"Have you _tasted_ sake?" Maxine replied.

John rolled his eyes.

I gave a small chuckle and got to my feet, heading into the kitchen to get some wine for myself. Once we all had a drink, we reconvened to the living room—John and I sitting in our chairs while Maxine sat on the arm of my seat. John's only sign of disapproval was the slight twinge in his brow, but he managed to hold his tongue and look away.

"Are the pencils working out?" I asked Maxine.

"Oh, yes," Maxine said, nodding enthusiastically. "Quite well. The erasers too."

For Maxine's Christmas gift, I'd gotten her some of the finest sketching pencils I could find, as well as some erasers that were thorough enough to make marks on any paper vanish without a trace. I'd also gotten her a stocking cap that was the same shade of yellow as her scarf with a small embroidered patch that bore the katakana symbol that stood for art. She'd been delighted when she'd opened the gift, and even rewarded me with a kiss. It was far better than our first one—after all, she didn't shove me away to vomit.

In the distance, Big Ben began to toll the hour. I glanced toward Maxine, suddenly feeling too warm in my skin. I wasn't typically one for tradition, but this _was_ another excuse to kiss her. The only issue was, we'd never kissed in front of John—in fact, we hadn't had a second kiss at all.

"Oh, go on," John sighed when he spotted me staring at his sister.

"What?" Maxine asked, blinking as she looked between John and me.

I gently grasped her chin to turn her toward me. Her steel-blue eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. I could feel her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips that were against her throat. I drew her closer to me and pressed my lips to hers. It wasn't as... involved as our previous kiss, but it was still warm and passionate. I reveled in the sheer weightlessness that flooded me. It was the best high I'd ever had.

After a moment, we separated and Maxine smiled at me with a small satisfied sigh. I felt the urge to draw her into me once more, but John cleared his throat loudly the moment I started to lean toward his sister again.

"Happy New Year, John," I said, straightening up and looking over at him.

John glanced between us and then he gave us a small grin that seemed both reluctant and genuinely cheerful.

"Happy New Year," he replied.

I picked up my violin from beside my chair and the new bow Maxine had gifted me. I got to my feet and began to play _Auld Lang Syne_ with fluid, easy motions. It was a song I'd memorized a long time ago. Maxine took over my chair and smiled at John before watching me play. I couldn't help but let a small smile arrest my lips as I ran the bow over the strings.

It was a new year and a new side of me had come bursting out in order to be close with Maxine. I made a silent vow to myself that I would ensure it worked—Maxine and me as well as my friendship with John. Mycroft had told me that compassion was a weakness, but all that did was spur me to prove him wrong. How could anything that felt this divine be a mistake? How could it be wrong?

There was a part of me—deep, deep down—that whispered words of warning in my ear. It talked about my line of work and the dangers it presented. It talked about how Maxine and John could easily be hurt just by being near me, let alone being my best friend and girlfriend. It talked about how hollow I would become if something ever happened.

But I decided to keep playing my violin, letting the music consume me.

* * *

 _Irene_

Big Ben tolled the New Year moments ago. I walked down the street, wrapping my coat closer around myself as I passed St Paul's Cathedral. My breath loosed a curling trail of vapor into the air from the cold. Over and over, I replayed my conversation with John Watson. Over and over, I saw Sherlock Holmes' vague outline turn and walk swiftly away when I spoke the truth—when I told John that Sherlock had feelings for Maxine and not me.

It hurt. I didn't expect it to, but the throb in my chest and gut was undeniable. Somewhere along the line, I'd fallen for the detective. However, I shoved the emotion away. I had enjoyed Maxine Watson as well—such a petite, naive thing, yet incredibly clever in her own right. I certainly wouldn't have minded kissing that cute freckled face of hers, or holding her slender hips against mine.

How was it that I somehow managed to grow fond over two different people at the same time and they could see no-one but each other.

"Pathetic," I whispered to myself.

Then, over the clacking of my heels on the sidewalk, I heard my mobile trill a text alert. Pausing, I reached into my bag and checked it.

 _Happy New Year_

 _SH_

A smile arrested my lips, but then another text came through, one from a number I didn't recognize. I opened it, frowning with curiosity.

 _Thank you._

 _MW_

A small breath escaped my lips, letting a cloud of fog drift lazily up into the winter air. Maxine... he'd told her—or perhaps John had—and she felt the need to...

I closed my eyes for a moment, smiling again. The clever detective and his two assistants... Had I somehow managed to make a connection with them? Had I escaped the cage I'd build around myself and still held onto some of my humanity? After letting out one last exhale, I put the phone back in my bag and kept walking down the street.

* * *

 _Maxine_

I leaned over Sherlock to stare at the computer screen with him. Displayed on the monitor was an X-ray that showed the interior parts of a mobile phone. I didn't really have any clue what we were looking for, but just being near him was enough for me. I had one hand on his shoulder while my face was almost right next to his—our cheeks mere millimeters apart.

It was a couple of days into the new year, and Sherlock had been eager to get back to figuring out how to unlock the secrets Irene's phone held. I was flattered he'd managed to hold off for a few days to spend with me. We had gone to eat at the same restaurant we ate at during the Study in Pink case. This time, we didn't have to tell the owner that we weren't a couple, though we were both rather flustered by the flowers and tea light candles they brought. Dating was still very new to us.

"I'll be honest," I said. "I'm not very savvy with the hardware of technology."

"That's quite all right," Sherlock replied. "I can teach you, but not now. I have to think about this one—focus."

"Of course," I said with a small breath of amusement.

"Did you end up texting her?" Sherlock asked.

I blinked and turned my head to look at him. "How did you...?"

"I know when someone sneaks a look at my mobile," Sherlock replied. "John told you about his conversation with her, then?"

I nodded sheepishly. "I... I didn't realize that she was sort of... rooting for us to..."

"She is a bizarre woman," Sherlock said softly, still staring at the screen. "But next time, ask before you use my mobile, won't you?"

"Why? You never ask to use mine or John's things," I countered.

"Well, that's because you two tend to be gone or busy when I need them," Sherlock said.

I laughed, shaking my head at his absurdity.

"Oh, morning Sherlock, Maxine."

I blinked and turned to see Molly entering the room. I swallowed nervously, my body tensing up. I had been dreading when Sherlock told Molly that I was in a relationship with him. I figured it would lead to some conflict I would want nothing to do with. I remembered hearing girls in high school arguing over boys and how ridiculous it could get. One time, two girls got into a physical brawl in the center hall. There was pulled hair and blood on the carpet after they'd been hauled off to the principle's office.

"Morning," Sherlock replied calmly.

I shot him a surprised glance. How could he be so nonchalant? Didn't he realize how much Molly fancied him?

Molly came around and looked at the screen as I took a small step back from Sherlock, eager to prolong the conversation about us being a couple as long as possible.

"Is that a phone?" Molly asked, gesturing to the screen.

"It's a camera phone," Sherlock clarified.

"And you're X-raying it?" Molly looked completely confused.

"Yes, I am," Sherlock replied, still scanning the image with his eyes.

"Whose phone is it?" Molly inquired.

"A woman's," Sherlock said.

"Your girlfriend's?" Molly said the word with a great deal of dread and hesitation.

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?" Sherlock said incredulously, still staring at the monitor.

"Well, we all do silly things," Molly replied with a nervous laugh.

"Yes." Sherlock stared at the X-ray for a few more seconds before lifting his head and looking over at Molly. "They _do,_ don't they? _Very_ silly."

Molly looked even more confused now, but I looked back at the phone, pursing my lips in thought.

"She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games," Sherlock said, digging into his pocket.

"She does?" Molly's brow furrowed, her expression perplexed.

Sherlock pulled out Irene's camera phone and typed "221B" into the four-character password slot. It gave him a harsh beep and flashed a warning message: _WRONG PASSCODE. 2 ATTEMPTS REMAINING._ Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock shoved the phone back into his pocket, shaking his head.

"You might be onto something," I told him, gripping his arm gently. "She wouldn't choose something random. She would go for something direct, something that would possibly irritate you when she gets it back and reveals the passcode."

"Sounds like her doesn't it?" Sherlock said, looking back at the X-ray.

Molly was staring at my hand on Sherlock's forearm. I cleared my throat awkwardly and retracted it, turning my attention to the computer monitor. "So... you can't just extract the memory chip by taking it apart?"

"No," Sherlock said. "She's rigged it. Look here..." He reached up and pointed at four different spots on the screen where there were strange round capsules of some kind. "These are set to burst should there be any attempt to open the phone's casing. I'm guessing they're full of either acid or a small amount of explosive. If someone tries to open this..."

"It'll burn the hard drive," I murmured.

"We'll need to figure out the passcode," Sherlock said, exiting the X-ray's window and turning off the computer. "Where to for lunch, then?"

"Er..." I glanced warily at Molly for a moment before answering. "Chinese?"

Sherlock gave me an exasperated look. "We had that yesterday."

"It's hardly my fault that their sweet and sour chicken is so good," I replied.

Molly glanced between us, and to my horror, I could see the realization slowly flooding her eyes. She blinked rapidly and took a small step backward, her breath coming in a bit shaky.

"You-you two seem to be spending a lot of time together," she stammered.

"Yes, well, that's what couples are meant to do aren't they?" Sherlock said flatly as he put on his coat.

Molly's gaze dropped and her entire body stiffened. Her expression was crushed and her eyes began to shimmer. Terrified of the sheer awkwardness of it, I quickly grabbed her arm and gestured with my free hand toward the desk that she normally sat at.

"I left your Christmas gift there," I told her, "since our party got interrupted by a dead body."

"O-oh," Molly said shakily, managing to raise her eyes toward the present sat on her desk with blue wrapping paper and a white bow. "Thank you, Maxine."

She began to walk over to it, clearly eager to keep her face from being seen. Sherlock, completely oblivious, put on his scarf and gestured toward the door for us to leave. I hastily exited the lab, not wanting to hear any possible sounds of anguish from Molly.

As we exited St Bart's Hospital, I glanced at Sherlock with a small frown. We still didn't do much of the normal couple things like holding hands as we walked or show affection toward one another in public. We had issues with that even when we were alone.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You _do_ know that Molly fancies you," I said. "You have to—no-one is that oblivious, especially you."

Sherlock loosed a long exhale through his nose. "Yes, I know that she... is fond of me," he said. "That's why I invited you here. Think of it like a bandaid... no sense in letting her wonder."

"You've been cruel to her in the past," I reminded him.

"Cruel?" Sherlock met my eyes. "According to who—John? Surely you can see that I've done everything in her best interest. When she was dating Jim—Moriarty—he successfully tricked me into thinking he preferred men, and even though that wasn't the case, it's certainly good she called it off early. She was being used by him to get closer to me."

"That's only one example," I said. "What about Christmas?"

"I apologized," Sherlock argued.

I sighed heavily. "It's not that simple with people. Sorry should indicate you'll never do it again."

"I doubt she'll go through getting me such a nicely wrapped gift next Christmas," Sherlock replied.

"I mean hurting her in general, Sherlock," I said. "That includes flirting with her to get your way in the lab or to get her to do favors for you."

"I don't _flirt_ with her," Sherlock said.

I gave him a harsh look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "All right, I... inflate her ego to soften her up. It's important for my work."

"I'm sure if you just ask normally she'll still help you," I said. "This toying is only making it worse for her."

"Since when do you care so much about what someone else is feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"John taught me a lot while I was growing up," I explained. "What's right, what's wrong, what polite, what's rude..."

Sherlock huffed in frustration and rolled his eyes, but after a moment he glanced over at me with a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"You're trying to avoid a confrontation with her," he said.

I immediately adverted my gaze. "Well, it's rather awkward now, isn't it?"

Sherlock grinned in amusement and shook his head. "Practically a trained assassin and you want to avoid a row."

I shoved him lightly and he chuckled, taking the opportunity to snatch my hand and hold it in his own as we walked toward the main road to hail a cab.

* * *

The next few months went by in what seemed like a blur. Sherlock and I continued to date and grew less and less awkward around each other. John was even slowly coming around to it and even announced it on his blog, which delighted several readers while crushing some others who either fancied Sherlock, fancied me (which astonished me completely), or fancied Sherlock and John together.

It was strange to feel content for such a long period of time. We had a few cases here and there, but nothing spectacular. Meanwhile, Sherlock still couldn't figure out Irene's camera phone. He wrote down password ideas all the time, but he didn't dare try any with so few attempts remaining.

"It would have to make complete and total sense," he told me, "otherwise I'm not going to risk it."

Irene hadn't texted either of us since New Years but I was certain it wasn't the last we'd hear of her. She wasn't that type of woman. She would want her phone back eventually and who knew what means she'd go through to get it. Sure, she sort of helped Sherlock and I hook up, but that didn't mean she was our friend.

Of course, the day that Irene Adler finally didn't return wasn't one I enjoyed.

"New case," John said as Sherlock and I stepped into the living room, having just gone out to eat.

"Oh?" Sherlock perked a brow.

"Yeah, in your bed," John said, gesturing warily toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"In my...?" Sherlock began, clearly confused.

However, when he looked into his bedroom, he sighed as if he should have known. Irene Adler was nestled under his sheets, sleeping.

"Really?" I muttered, my brow twitching somewhat.

I hadn't been in that bed since Christmas, but that didn't mean I enjoyed seeing another woman—especially _this_ woman—snuggled up in it. Sherlock made to walk into the room, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him back to walk in first. He chuckled and waited by the door.

"Never pegged you as the jealous type," he said.

"She's not in my bed, she's not in John's bed," I told him as I walked to his bed's side. "So _clearly..._ "

Sherlock just chuckled again.

I reached over and gripped Irene's shoulder to give her a gentle shake. She moaned and stretched, lifting her arms high above her head and exposing her chest which was mercifully in a bra. When she blinked her long-lashed eyes open and spotted me, she smiled provocatively.

"Not who I was expecting, but all the same..." Irene murmured sleepily. "Care to join me?"

"What are you doing here?" I sighed in exasperation.

"Well, I have a case for the detective," Irene replied, sitting up in the bed.

"Okay, but why are you in Sherlock's _bed?_ " I demanded in a low tone.

"Touchy!" Irene smirked. "The first bed was too hard, the second too soft, but this one was _just_ right."

"Please tell me you weren't in my bed." I ran a hand over my face.

"We can go back upstairs if you prefer," Irene purred.

"Okay!" I turned around and marched out of the room. "I'm done here."

Sherlock's amusement seemed to have dissipated. Apparently he didn't like Irene flirting with me just as much as I didn't like her flirting with him.

"You best put something appropriate on," he said, his voice a touch tight. "I have dressing gowns in that wardrobe."

"Think I'll freshen up first," Irene said. She hopped out of the bed, showing off her matching lacy set of underwear. I heard John choke on his own spit behind me.

Sherlock was unfazed by Irene's show. He merely gestured with his head toward the bathroom. "By all means."

Sherlock, John, and I retreated to the living room as Irene went to take a shower. It was all a show, I knew that and I knew Sherlock wasn't interested in her, but all the same I was incredibly uncomfortable.

"She's here for the phone," I said, plopping down in Sherlock's chair, as he went to pacing.

"Clearly," Sherlock said.

"But why now?" John asked.

"Danger, most likely," Sherlock replied. "She said that the phone was her insurance."

"So someone's after her," I said.

John sat in his chair and pursed his lips. "Hell of an entrance."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes.

"You think she's really trying to get with Sherlock still?" John said. "C'mon, she saw that you two were a thing before you even were!"

"Sure, but excuse me while I don't trust a woman who's stabbed me in the neck with a needle and faked her own death so well it convinced Sherlock," I said, gesturing to the detective.

"I would have figured it out," Sherlock said defensively.

After a few minutes, Irene came out into the living room, her hair loose and damp. She'd taken one of Sherlock's dressing gowns as asked and went to sit down on the sofa. She smiled at each of them in turn and her eyes promised... _something…_ for each and every one of us.

"So who's after you?" Sherlock asked her.

Irene didn't so much as blink. She must have figured that Sherlock would deduce her reason for being here.

"People who want to kill me," she replied.

"Who's that?" Sherlock pressed.

"Killers," Irene said coyly.

"It would help if you were a bit more specific," John said.

"So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them," Sherlock guessed.

"It worked for a while," Irene admitted.

"Except you let John know that you were a live, and therefore me and Maxine," Sherlock went on.

"I knew _you'd_ keep my secret," Irene said, smiling lightly.

" _You_ couldn't," Sherlock countered.

"But you _did_ , didn't you?" Irene smiled wider briefly, then her expression grew serious. "Where's my camera phone?"

"It's not here," John told her. "We're not stupid."

"Then what have you done with it?" Irene demanded. "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."

"If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago," Sherlock said.

Irene eyed him. "I need it."

"Well, we can't just go get it, can we?" John said. Then, he looked over at Sherlock, his eyes lighting up. "Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart's; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it back up."

I blinked rapidly and gave John a slightly impressed look. However, there was just one thing.

"John..." I began.

"What? It would work!" John protested.

"Yes, very good, John," Sherlock said. "Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions."

"Thank you," John said as he picked up his phone. "So, why don't... Oh, for..."

He spotted Sherlock pulling a camera phone out of his jacket pocket and hold it up. Of course, I knew that it wasn't truly Irene's. I'd given him the idea of a duplicate in case Irene ever showed back up. Perhaps we could ge the passcode that way.

Irene stood up from the sofa, her eyes glued to the device. Sherlock looked her over carefully.

"So what do you keep on here—in general, I mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful," Irene replied.

"What, for blackmail?" John asked.

"For protection," Irene said. "I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"How do you even gather all this information?" I asked.

"I told you—I misbehave," Irene pressed.

"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection," Sherlock said. "Do you know what it is."

"Yes, but I don't understand it," Irene muttered.

"I assumed," Sherlock said. "Show me."

Irene held out her hand for the phone, but Sherlock held it up out of her reach.

"The passcode," he said.

Irene continued to hold her hand out, her eyes like daggers. Eventually, Sherlock passed the device to her. She activated the screen and held the phone so none of us could see it or the keypad before typing in four characters. The phone gave a warning beep—the kind it did each time Sherlock guessed an incorrect passcode.

"It's not working," Irene said, blinking and looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock took the phone from her hand so fast, she didn't have time to react. "No, because it's a duplicate we had made, into which you've just entered the numbers one oh five eight."

Irene watched incredulously as Sherlock went over to his chair I was sitting in and without even asking me to move reached beneath the cushion and pulled free the real camera phone.

"I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway," Sherlock said as he opened the phones screen and typed in the numbers. He gave Irene a smug look.

Then the phone beeped warningly, meaning we only had one attempt remaining.

"I _told_ you, that camera phone was my life," Irene said. "I know when it's in my hand."

I clicked my tongue disappointedly and gave Sherlock a sheepish shrug. "I thought it'd work for sure."

"It's okay, she's rather good," Sherlock sighed.

"You're not so bad," Irene said, smiling at him.

I let out a small grunt of irritation and she rolled her eyes at me.

"Oh please, it's too fun to not," Irene murmured. "Anyway, there was a man—a MOD official. I knew what he liked." She held out her hand for the real phone.

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose and handed it to her. Irene walked a short distance away so none of us could see the screen or keypad as she typed in the real passcode. Once the phone was unlocked, she turned back around and came back to Sherlock's side. I sat up in his chair to see she was showing him a photo.

"One of the things he liked was showing off," Irene continued. "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She handed the phone over to Sherlock. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen—can you read it?"

Sherlock sat down at the dining table and John and I both got up to go to him. Irene sat across from the detective and waited. I peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the screen, squinting my eyes a bit. The top of the email—what I assumed was the subject line—read: _007 Confirmed allocation_ and beneath it was a string of numbers and letters.

 _4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K._

I frowned, unable to even fathom what it might mean.

"Yes," Sherlock said to Irene, indicating he could read it.

"A code, obviously," Irene said. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it—though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out."

"Maybe don't distract him so much next time," I suggested.

"Ah ha, she's cheeky!" Irene grinned widely at me. "Has dating made you a touch less dull?"

"Has being on the run made you less of a harlot?" I countered.

"Ladies, ladies!" John interjected.

"Oh, it's quite all right." Irene continued to grin at me. "I like this feisty side of Maxine. Makes me wonder how long it would take to get her to say _please_."

"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore," Sherlock abruptly said, his words running rapidly off his tongue. "Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

The rest of us were all staring at Sherlock, clearly at a loss of how he got a plane departure from that string of nonsense.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock said, noticing our confusion. "It's not a code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look..."

He put the phone flat on the table and pointed at the numbers and letters.

"There's no letter I because it can be mistaken for a 1; no letters past 'K'—the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place—families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number—zero zero seven—that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport."

Irene's expression turned to one of admiration as she gazed at him. Sherlock looked up and noticed this. He sighed and adverted his gaze.

"Please don't feel obligated to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice," Irene said intensely.

I sat upright and set her in a glare as John spluttered and Sherlock furrowed his brows in mild surprise.

"Well, that's new," he admitted. "John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"

"Uh-huh, I'm on it, yeah," John said, shaking his head slightly. He cleared his throat and reached across the table for his laptop and opened it.

As John began to type away on his computer I tapped the table a few times with my fingers and shot Irene a dark glance. Irene noticed and smiled widely. She seemed to delight in my reaction. However, instead of pressing the matter, she darted her eyes between Sherlock and me.

"You two haven't done anything worthwhile yet, have you?" she said.

Sherlock coughed, probably briefly choking on his own saliva. I felt my cheeks running hot and John's typing paused as his head snapped upright.

"I-I don't see how that's any of your business one way or the other," I stammered.

Irene chuckled as John began to type again, but it was considerably slower.

"I suppose it isn't surprising, but come on, you two..." she said.

"Uh, yeah, you're right," John said, clearly eager to change the subject as he looked up at Sherlock. "Uh, flight double oh seven."

Sherlock, who was appearing quite uncomfortable, turned round to look at John with sudden intent. "What did you say?"

"You're right," John said.

"No, no, no, after that," Sherlock pressed. "What did you say?"

"Double oh seven," John replied. "Flight double oh seven."

"Double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven..." Sherlock repeated quietly to himself and glared down at the table briefly before standing up to start pacing. "Something... something connected to double of seven... What?"

He went over to his chair and sat down, pressing his hands together as if in prayer. I recognized the look in his eyes. He'd be searching his mind until he understood the connection he felt. I didn't understand what it could be, but figured the detective would figure it out in due time. John went out to get some food and finish up some other errands, clearly needing some air after Irene's continued suggestive talk regarding Sherlock and me.

This left only Irene and myself in the room, considering Sherlock was checked out, most likely lost in the palace of his mind. While Sherlock sat in his chair, Irene curled up in John's, seeming to have no intent on changing out of the dressing gown. I went and made some royal milk tea and carefully set the tray on the coffee table.

"Er, would you like some?" I offered awkwardly.

Irene blinked and looked down. "Mm, milk tea?"

"Royal milk tea, it's a bit different," I said. "Japanese style. The milk is boiled with the leafs instead of aft... just, would you like some?"

Irene's suggestive talk had left me as flustered as my brother, it seemed.

"I'd be delighted to," Irene replied with a slight smile.

I nodded and poured her a cup. I brought three out just in case Sherlock came to while the kettle was still warm. After handing Irene her cup, I poured my own and sat down in front of the coffee table, sitting on the heels of my feet like I used to while in Japan. Irene noticed this as she sipped her tea.

"So you did spend time in Japan," she said.

I glanced toward her and nodded before taking a sip from my cup.

"Suppose that's where you learned to be so handy with the knife," Irene mused.

"It's a dagger—" I caught myself correcting her and shook my head. "I actually took lessons before I went."

It was a lie I acquired from Sherlock, who was still worried about the Yakuza learning that I was Miyako's student.

"Fascinating," Irene said. "You must make men quake everywhere you go. Most don't like a woman with such confidence. But there are a good number who do." She winked.

I adverted my gaze.

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asked.

I was in the middle of sipping my tea and nearly spat it out. After swallowing and coughing a few times, I turned my watering eyes to Irene, who smiled wickedly at me.

"Again, not really any-any of your business," I stammered while still trying to clear my throat.

Irene chuckled softly. "I doubt you have. You don't seem the type to even need it, really. It would have to take someone very special, wouldn't it?" She glanced toward Sherlock who was still out of it, staring at the fireplace.

My cheeks might as well have set aflame. I knew there was no hiding my blush, but I still turned away all the same and hastily took a drink.

"H-how about we talk about something else?" I muttered.

"Your first time will probably hurt, but just think like a butterfly," Irene said, her voice sultry as ever. "Spread those wings wide and fly—"

"Okay! Okay. Sherlock, come on, come to already," I said, smacking Sherlock's knee a few times.

"Coventry," he said abruptly, life returning to those pale green eyes as he looked around at us.

"I've never been. Is it nice?" Irene smiled at Sherlock like nothing had happened between her and me.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, looking around the living room.

"Left a couple hours ago," I said.

"I was just talking to him," Sherlock argued.

"They _said_ you do that," Irene replied, her eyes glinting in amusement. "What's Coventry got to do with anything?"

"It's a story, probably not true," Sherlock said. "In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to _know_ that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway."

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene suddenly asked the same question she had to me.

Sherlock looked up at her, startled. "Sorry?"

"And when I say 'had' I'm being indelicate," Irene said.

Sherlock still seemed perplexed. I wanted to bury my face in my arms.

"I don't understand," he said, a sentence that rarely left that man's lips.

"If Maxine here was naked right here, right now, would you have her?" Irene purred.

Sherlock's expression changed in a blink. The confusion fell way to shocked bashfulness, his cheeks pinking.

"U-uh-um..." He glanced toward Maxine and the blush deepened before he cleared his throat.

"So yes, then!" Irene said, beaming. "You two _fascinate_ me."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the stairs.

"Oh thank God," I rasped, getting to my feet and turning to see our landlady step into their living room.

With her was none other than Plummer from the Palace, still in his black suit and stone expression.

"Sherlock this man was at the door," Mrs. Hudson explained with a hint of irritation. "Is the bell still not working?" She turned to Plummer and explained, "He shot it."

"Have you come to take us away _again?_ " Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Plummer said.

"Well, I decline on behalf of myself and Max," Sherlock said.

Plummer took and envelope from his jacket and stepped further into the room to offer it to the detective. "I don't think you do."

Sherlock snatched it out of the man's hand and opened it. I walked over to peer over his shoulder at the contents. Inside was a Business Class boarding pass for Flyaway Airways in the name of Sherlock Holmes for flight number 007 to Baltimore, scheduled to leave at 18:30.

"Bond Air is go..." I whispered, abruptly remembering Mycroft's words when he was speaking on the phone here in this very flat.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet.

* * *

 _ **A/N::: Sorry for such a late update, guys, I've been battling a chronic condition of mine and it's been almost impossible to keep up with anything in my life, let alone my fics. It's better now.**_

 _ **Oh! If any of you are in the Cheyenne, Wyoming area, I'll be at the public library on September 14th selling and signing copies of my book, The Whisper of Shadows, for a discounted price of only $12! First ten folks to show up get a free exclusive poster of one of the characters, Ash Rednal.**_

 _ **I know it's a long shot that any of you are nearby, but figured I'd put it out there! Hope you enjoyed the chapter regardless; I enjoyed John's reaction in the beginning about the kiss.**_

 _ **Thanks as always for the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites!**_

 _ **-Red**_


	35. A Scandal in Belgravia, Part 9

_**A/N::: Sorry for such the long delay on this one, guys. I've been pretty sick and it's kept me from writing. This chapter is a bit short, but don't worry, I have more already written and will update it next week. Enjoy!**_

* * *

 _Sherlock_

The same sleek black car that took us to the Palace was waiting for us just outside on Baker Street. Maxine accompanied me once again and we left Irene in the flat to await John's return. Part of me wasn't entirely comfortable with leaving her alone in our living space, but there wasn't much of a choice at the moment.

The ticket alone answered several questions for me. As we drove, I looked up and watched Plummer in the rear view mirror.

"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. _Nothing_ is ever new."

Of course that wasn't true. I was experiencing plenty of new with my relationship with Maxine. I was constantly aware of the distance between us. I wanted to close it, to hold her hand, to kiss her hair, to kiss her... other places. We had a few passionate kissing sessions but it never went beyond that, not yet, at least. And Irene's words just before Plummer showed up...

" _If Maxine were naked right here, right now, would you have her?_ "

Damn that woman. Even when she wasn't trying to get my attention on her, she knew just what to say to get me flustered. I hadn't even seen Maxine in a bathing suit, let alone nude. However, the mere thought of it...

"Hope she stays out of my room," Maxine said abruptly.

I looked over at her, perking a brow.

"Adler," Maxine clarified. "We just left her alone in our flat. What if she steals something? Or messes with my things? What if she draws crude images on my story panels?"

"I don't think she's going to do anything like that," I assured her, putting my hand on her knee.

She glanced down at it and smiled lightly before putting her hand over mine. "I suppose she has bigger fish. Always bigger fish..."

The drive took some time before we finally arrived at Heathrow Airport. Glancing out the window, I spied several hangers before we finally stopped outside a large jumbo jet parked on the tarmac. 747 was stamped across its side. The steps leading up to the entry door were lowered.

Maxine and I exited the car and started walking toward the plane. As we approached, the dim lighting revealed a figure standing at the bottom of the steps leading inside the large vehicle. Maxine stiffened and stopped walking abruptly and it only took me a heartbeat to understand why.

The man by the stairs was Neilson, the American agent that attacked her and Mrs. Hudson. It had been a couple of months since their encounter, so no sign of the injuries I left on him remained. However, when he spotted me, he stiffened up briefly, which told me that he had not forgotten the pain I'd inflicted.

Wanting to calm Maxine (and silently being thankful that she didn't bring her dagger) I gripped her hand and walked forward.

"Well, you're lookin' all better," I said to the agent in the fakest American accent I could muster. "How ya feelin'?"

Maxine gave a small breath of amusement and I cast her a smirk. If I made nothing of the man, that's all he would be—nothing.

"Like putting a bullet in your brain... sir," Neilson replied tightly.

Maxine's grip on my hand tightened, but I merely sniggered and made to walk up the stairs.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did..." Neilson said.

I paused, turning my head to look at him.

"...sir," the agent added insincerely.

"What the _hell_ is he doing here?" Maxine snarled, her temper clearly lost.

"Don't bother, Max," I said, tugging her up the stairs. "He knows what happens when he's outclassed."

"Are you two really an item?" Neilson laughed humorlessly. "No wonder you got so angry... Pretty thing, especially when she cries."

I froze on the steps, this time my grip tightening on Maxine's. Just as I began to turn, a familiar voice came from inside the plane.

"That's quite enough, Neilson." Mycroft appeared in the entry way, leaning on that favored umbrella of his. "Sherlock, if you'd care to join me..."

"Your friend talks big for someone who needed two more men to take down a girl, Mycroft," Maxine said, leading the way up the rest of the steps.

Mycroft backed up and allowed the two of us inside. He eyed our joined hands just as we released one another and his beady eyes locked onto mine. John hadn't published the fact that the two of us were involved yet. He promised he wouldn't until we were ready. Mycroft was one of the reasons I wanted to wait. It was nice to be involved with Maxine without my older brother telling me it was a mistake.

Ignoring Mycroft's icy stare, I turned my attention to the plane. It was dimly lit and all the seats around me were full of people. However, the people weren't moving _at all._ No sign of shoulders sagging from a sigh or chests lifting for breath. I leaned closer to one of the seats and noticed the pigment of the man's skin was gray. Abruptly I realize: they are all dead.

There was no sign of decomposition, but these bodies had been dead for some time. Kept cold, I guessed. I looked around at more of the passengers to see they were in the same condition. Maxine was staring at a couple of passengers with her brow furrowed, but then a look of dawning went across her face.

"The Coventry conundrum," Mycroft said, speaking softly as if afraid to wake the deceased. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

"The plane blows up mid-air," I mused. "Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies."

"Neat, don't you think?" Mycroft said.

"Self-flying plane," Maxine murmured. "Crafty."

"You've been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages—or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" Mycroft asked me.

I met Maxine's eyes. She shook her head slightly.

"Those little girls, remember?" she breathed. "Months ago—before Christmas—they said they weren't allowed to see their granddad when died." Maxine gripped one of the seats and leaned down to inspect an old man's face. "And that loon that said it wasn't his aunt in the urn..."

"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight," Mycroft continued.

I recalled the man's body in the boot of a car with the passport stamped in Berlin airport. By Maxine's dawning expression, she remembered too.

"But that's the deceased for you—late, in every sense of the word," Mycroft said.

"So Maxine's right then, it's an unmanned aircraft," I murmured. "That's how it flies?"

"It _doesn't_ fly," Mycroft said, his tone growing tighter and more irate with every syllable. "It will _never_ fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished."

"Your MOD man," I said.

"That's all it takes: one lonely naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special," Mycroft murmured.

"Hmm," I perked an eyebrow at him. "You should screen your defense people more carefully."

"Sherlock..." Maxine said, looking up at me with her expression growing more and more dismayed.

"What?" I said, looking between her and Mycroft.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I'm talking about _you!"_ Mycroft bellowed furiously and slammed the tip of his umbrella on the floor.

I blinked a few times. What could he mean? How could I have possibly caused this? Maxine put a hand over her mouth, horrified about something, but I didn't understand what.

"The damsel in distress," Mycroft said, smiling ironically. "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love when yours is unrequited, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle..." his voice dropped to a whisper and he twirled the end of his umbrella, "...and watch him dance."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her?" Mycroft demanded. "Was it the full minute, or were you really _eager_ to impress?"

Behind me, a familiar, feminine voice said, "I think it was less than five seconds."

I whirled around to see Irene Adler dressed beautifully, fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured. It was The Woman at her immaculate best.

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said ruefully. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yes." Maxine stepped forward, putting herself between Mycroft and myself. "You should be sorry. You throw us into this mess without telling us the whole story. You toss your little brother up against this woman without explaining to us everything she was capable of. That agent out there was sent to get the phone from us, and you knew about that too, didn't you? How he hurt our land lady? Had his men knock me around until I lost consciousness? This is _absurd,_ Mycroft, even for you!"

Mycroft blinked rapidly at Maxine's stinging words. This, coming from the woman who hated verbal conflict, who would rather fight her way out of her problems with a dagger than tell someone off.

"You've no one to blame but yourself on this one," Maxine snarled. "And if that asshole, Neilson, isn't gone by the time we leave this crypt of a plane, _I'm going to ensure he joins them."_

I could hardly believe the fierceness that Maxine was showing. Something had snapped in her, it seemed.

"This girl knows how to make me blush," Irene sighed.

Maxine shot her a furious glare, but before she could rip into Irene, the dominatrix spoke first.

"Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk," she said.

"So do I," I agreed. "There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on."

"Not you, Junior," Irene walked right past him toward Mycroft. "You're done now."

Maxine looked like she wanted to pounce on Irene when she went by her, especially after she winked. I stepped forward and pulled Maxine back before she did something all of us here would regret.

"There's more... loads more," Irene told Mycroft as she lifted her mobile. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me—unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

Mycroft could no longer hold her gaze and turned his head away, lowering his eyes.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Mycroft's office was mostly the same since the last time I'd visited it. Large, dark, and sleek. A fireplace roared not terribly far from the desk. There were a pair of armchairs beside it and Sherlock occupied one of them, clenching and unclenching his right hand. Mycroft stood near his desk with Irene. The phone sat on the surface, astoundingly small with the amount of weight it held.

I wanted to comfort Sherlock. We were all fooled by Irene. Even John. How were we to know what was going on when a huge amount of info was withheld from us when we first got the case? However, Sherlock still didn't want Mycroft to know we were dating, so I settled for the other armchair.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft told Irene, though there was no aggression or threat in his voice.

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months," Irene replied.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, grimacing.

"Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X'rayed my camera phone," Irene said.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect contain acid or a small amount of explosive," Sherlock said, his tone void of emotion. "Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive," Irene clarified. "It's more me."

"Some data is always recoverable," Mycroft said.

"Take the risk?" Irene smiled at him.

"You have a passcode to open this," Mycroft went on. "I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

"Sherlock?" Irene prompted calmly.

"There will be two passcodes: one to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."

"He's good, isn't he?" Irene purred. "I should have him on a leash—in fact, I _might."_

I clenched my fists, deeply wishing that my dagger was on me. Irene winked at me, seeing my irritation.

"We destroy this, then," Mycroft said. " _No-one_ has the information."

"Fine." Irene returned her attention to him. "Good idea... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft demanded.

"Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore," Irene said coolly. She reached into her handbag on the table before her and took out an envelope. Coyly, she pushed it across the desk at Mycroft. "A list of my requests; and some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Mycroft took the envelope and began to open it.

"I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation—but then I'd be lying." Irene murmured.

Mycroft stared at the paper with his eyebrows raised.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," Irene suggested.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft sighed.

"Too bad." Irene smiled again. "Off you pop and talk to people."

Mycroft sinked back into his chair, sighing. "You've been very... thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help." Irene looked over at Sherlock. "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock and I looked at each other in mild alarm.

"Yes, he's been in touch," Mycroft muttered. "Seems desperate for my attention..." His voice grew a touch more ominous as he added, "Which I'm sure can be arranged."

Sherlock's gaze began to sharpen. Something was ticking in that brain of his, something important. I sat up and leaned forward in my seat eagerly. We'd had this connection since we first met. He shot a meaningful glance toward Irene. I nodded, showing I was following along. His pressed his hands in the prayer gesture he was so fond of, and rubbed his palms together gently.

I understood the message. Irene was having fun with this. Excited about it. The dominatrix pleased as her adversaries became submissive. But there was more to it. I recalled how she acted in our flat—seeming to toy with us.

"I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it," Irene was prattling on to Mycroft. "Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice on how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you? The Ice Man..." she glanced back at Sherlock. "...and the Virgin."

That was it. I looked at Sherlock and gestured between us. He frowned for a moment and I rolled my eyes before making a heart shape with my hands, and then breaking it in half and shooting Irene a meaningful look. Luckily, her attention was back on Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes began to flicker back and forth. There was something there, something deep in that palace of a mind he had, and he was unraveling it bit by bit. There had to be a mistake somewhere—something that was obvious.

"Didn't even ask for anything," Irene went on. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now _that's_ my kind of man."

My eyes widened. Sherlock's expression sharpened once again and we locked our gaze.

We had her.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft sighed. "Nicely played."

"No," Sherlock said.

Mycroft and Irene both turned to him as he looked over his shoulder at them.

"Sorry?" Irene looked insulted.

"I said no," Sherlock repeated, getting to his feet. " _Very_ close, but no."

I hopped up and followed after him, eyes locked on Irene. "You were too close to this, Adler."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Irene demanded.

"You got carried away," Sherlock explained. "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"No such thing as too much," Irene argued, though her confident facade seemed to be cracking.

Sherlock walked right up to her and leered down into her eyes. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game—I sympathize entirely—but sentiment?" He glanced back at me, then returned his glare to her. "Sentiment is something I'm quite familiar with now."

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?" Irene said, shaking her head slightly.

"You," Sherlock said.

Irene stared at him a heartbeat long then a smile returned to her. "Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Sherlock stepped even closer, their bodies nearly touching.

"No," he said softly.

He reached out and slowly wrapped the fingers of his right hand around her left wrist, then leaned forward to bring his mouth close to her right ear.

"Because I took your pulse," he whispered. "Elevated; pupils dilated."

He stepped away, releasing her and letting out a small breath. Sherlock glanced warily at his brother, who was watching the display with deep curiosity.

I stepped forward now, eyeing Irene.

"You constantly texted Sherlock, perhaps it was part of the game, a tease, a ploy... but you're actually upset that you don't have him—that you never will," I said. "Saying Moriarty is your type of man... come now, how obvious can you be?"

Irene scoffed and shook her head. "This is absurd."

"I used to think that love was just chemistry—something simple but destructive," Sherlock said. "But how you act around—how your _body_ acts—is exactly how mine is around Max."

Mycroft's eyes widened and he looked between Sherlock and me. "I beg your pardon?"

"Later," Sherlock snapped without looking at him. He kept his glare on Irene. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe, your measurements; but this..." He snagged the phone from the table and tossed it into the air before catching it. "This is far more intimate."

He pulled up the screen that read "I AM - LOCKED."

"This is your heart," Sherlock murmured, "...and you should have never let it rule your head."

Irene stared at him, clearly trying to stay calm, but the panic was beginning to set in behind her eyes.

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for," Sherlock said, smiling. "But you just couldn't resist, could you?"

He typed in the third character on the phone, still keeping eye contact with Irene.

"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage," he said. "But without Max, I might have missed this one."

Sherlock lifted his thumb for the last character. Irene lunged forward and seized his wrist, staring up at him desperately.

"Everything I said: it's not real," she whispered. "I was just playing the game."

"I know," Sherlock replied, gently pulling his hand free. "And this is just losing."

He turned the screen to show her the passcode he'd placed.

I AM

SHER

LOCKED

Irene gazed at the screen in despair for a few seconds, then Sherlock lifted the phone away and held it out toward Mycroft just as the phone unlocked and presented its menu.

"There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight," Sherlock said without looking away from Irene.

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft said, taking the phone and a small smile quirking the edge of his mouth. It seemed this development completely distracted him from how Sherlock practically said he loved me.

 _Loved_ me.

The concept was too much for me to handle at the moment. Instead, I focused on Irene. She was staring at Sherlock with horror and dread. He eyed her for a moment before going to my side and gesturing toward the door with a flick of his head.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise let her go," the detective said as we headed for the office door side by side. "I doubt she'll survive long without her protection."

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Irene said in a low voice.

"Yes," Sherlock replied calmly, only glancing back at her once.

The two of us paused near the door when she said, "Please."

I looked back at her, seeing her anguished expression. She realized she had no choice but to at least _try_ to beg.

"You're right," Irene pressed.

Sherlock now turned back to look at her as well.

"I won't even last six months," Irene pleaded.

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, reached over to take my hand in his, and headed out the door.

"Sorry about dinner," he said over his shoulder, and closed the door behind us.

* * *

Every now and then, I thought about Irene Adler. She had been instrumental in bringing Sherlock and I together, after all. And despite how she was truly a villain and did most things in her life for her own personal gain, I found myself hoping that she somehow survived after her protection was proven useless to her.

So it was almost a relief when Mycroft told us she went into a witness protection program in the United States where she would live and thrive. Though Sherlock seemed to eager to accept the news. And when Sherlock was so quick to agree, I grew suspicious.

"She's safe because of you, isn't she?" I asked him one night.

John was out on a date and we had the flat to ourselves. He sat in his favored chair, reading the paper while I sketched aimlessly on a doodle pad.

"Sorry?" Sherlock glanced up at me in confusion.

"Irene Adler," I said, smiling lightly. "You helped her."

Sherlock shrugged and looked back down at his paper. "Well, my brother had to believe she was dead to truly get her out of harm's way."

"Dead? He told us she was in America," I argued.

Sherlock shrugged again. "God only knows why he lied."

"Perhaps he didn't want to upset us," I suggested.

"Why would that be upsetting?" Sherlock put the paper down to frown at me.

Now I shrugged. "She made an impression."

"A bad one."

"She brought us together."

"It would have happened with or without her."

I smiled lightly. "You think so?"

He smiled back. "Of course. It's not like my feelings for you only developed with her influence."

"Well, regardless, thanks for helping her." I shook my head slightly. "I can't help but feel like I owe her something."

"Consider the debt paid," Sherlock said. He folded his paper and put it on the coffee table before standing. "Chinese?"

"Yes, please," I replied.

He came over to gently kiss my forehead before heading for the door.


	36. A Hunt For an Artist, Part 1

_**A/N::: The following is actually an original case, so fair warning that we are stepping away from the show's canon cases for a bit. I hope that you guys like it, and that you get to see our lovely trio in a new situation! Enjoy~**_

* * *

 _Maxine_

A couple months went by. Ever since Sherlock had practically confessed his love for me with the Irene Adler case, our relationship got slightly... awkward. It was both more intimate and more strained. Sherlock hadn't actually said the words: "I love you," and neither had I. Neither of us quite understood the ins and outs of dating and romantic relationships. I found myself asking for John's advice, which he didn't seem to appreciate.

"I really _don't_ want to talk about my little sister snogging, thanks," he said when I asked him how long a kiss was typically supposed to last.

We hadn't received any particularly complicated or dangerous cases, which led me to start feeling anxious and pent up. I could see it was getting to Sherlock as well, but since there were so many cases heading our way thanks to John's blog, he seemed to be pacified by the piles of simple cases for the time being.

On a rainy morning, I opened my laptop on my drawing desk, wanting to check my emails and manga sales before going downstairs for breakfast. I yawned, my eyes still burning from sleep. My new manga series had officially launched and already had made excellent sales in Japan. I'd titled it simply " _Silas_ " and it seemed the teen population was eating it up. My publishers were already eager to get English translations out, though they were still pressuring me to continue MANA on top of everything else.

It was getting a bit difficult to balance the manga with Sherlock's work, and I still had a good number of sleepless nights whenever a deadline was approaching. John suggested I just learn to stop procrastinating, but I hadn't missed a deadline yet, even with putting off the work until the last minute.

As I scrolled through my emails, the subject line of one caught my eye.

 _AKAGE PLEASE READ._

Akage... the nickname Miyako had given me. I stared at it for a long moment, my heart beginning to accelerate and flush the fatigue from my body. I had sent a final email to her long ago, as Sherlock instructed, and switched emails completely. The detective warned me that the Yakuza might use Miyako's email to try and hack my computer—to figure out who I was and where I lived. It was possible they were masquerading as her in an attempt to trick me into opening the email.

Miyako assured me that the crime syndicate would never learn of my true identity, but if I was being honest with myself, there weren't that many white redheaded girls living near Miyako's dojo at the time. The Yakuza was resourceful; I wouldn't be surprised if they figured it out. However, if that was the case, why try to trick me into thinking they were Miyako?

For a long moment, I stared at the email, wrestling with myself internally. Miyako had been my first real friend beside John. She'd seen my true self before I did. I missed her deeply and always felt some level of concern about what she was doing and if she was safe. I had confidence in my teacher's skills, but there was only so much one could do against the Yakuza.

There was a knock on my door.

Startled, I slammed the lid of my laptop shut as Sherlock's voice called out to me.

"Decent?" he asked.

"Er, yeah," I replied, pushing my laptop back on the desk and hoping that nothing minuscule would give away anything about the email.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside holding a mug of something that was steaming.

"Tea," he said, gesturing with the cup. "Well, royal milk tea."

"Oh!" I took the cup and peered inside at the frothy surface. "Thank you, Sherlock." I narrowed my eyes and looked up at him. "What's the occasion?"

Sherlock blinked. "I can't make my girlfriend her favorite tea on a Saturday morning?"

I continued to stare at him suspiciously.

The detective let out a sharp exhale and bit his lip before bouncing slightly on his heels. "I might have made a bet with Mycroft."

I raised my brows. "That doesn't seem like a good idea."

"Why not?" Sherlock looked momentarily insulted. "I've won plenty against him."

"Oh, I'm sure," I replied. "But I can only imagine what sort of bets come up between the two of you."

Sherlock scoffed and waved me off. "Oh, it's not that bad. Well, _this_ one isn't."

I chuckled and smiled up at him from my seat. "So, what are we proving wrong?"

"A date."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "Mycroft doesn't think that I can survive a normal day out... out on a date. You know, cinema, dinner, walks in... the park—dear God, it really does sound dull, doesn't it?"

I laughed and leaned back in my seat, gripping my mug with both hands to warm my fingers. "I suppose it does. But I think if we tackle it together, we can make it somewhat entertaining."

Sherlock grinned and pointed at me. " _This_ is why I adore you."

His words flooded me with warmth and I sipped my tea to hid my rising blush. I was reminded how we hadn't used the word "love" yet. I wasn't certain if _love_ was what I had with Sherlock—I hadn't the first clue what love felt like. I knew I loved my brother, but that was a different sort of love; it wasn't the romantic sense of love that so many works of fiction proclaimed to be like fire and was steeped in irrevocable longing.

I didn't know if what I had with Sherlock was fire. There was heat, that was certain, but it didn't carry the danger and lethality that fire did. It was a safe warmth, something that comforted me down to my bones. If this was what love was, I didn't mind it. In fact, I'd very much appreciate more.

"So, cinema?" I suggested. "Or, are we eating first? Are you supposed to do one first over the other?" I frowned.

Sherlock shrugged. "Who knows. I'm sure there's something relatively intriguing playing... At least something that won't put us to sleep."

"If you guess the ending, _don't_ tell me this time," I scolded.

Sherlock groaned. "They're so _obvious._ "

I rolled my eyes and gestured for him to leave my room. "Well, if we're going out, I need to put on acceptable clothes."

"I dunno..." Sherlock looked me over with his brilliant pale green eyes. "There's something appealing to the tomboyish look..."

"I'm in a shirt that's three times my size and board shorts."

"Oh, you have shorts on..." Sherlock cleared his throat and turned around abruptly. "Right, yes, go on then."

With a slightly awkward gate, he hurriedly left my room, closing the door behind him. I looked down at myself with a frown and realized that the shirt I had on was so big that it had been covering my shorts. Sherlock, despite all his deduction skills, had believed I wasn't wearing any sort of pants.

My face heated and I took another long drink from my tea. The only part of this dating nonsense I didn't like was how often I found myself trapped in an emotion between horrific embarrassment and a glorious euphoria. Doubt always coupled with the embarrassment as well; it told me that I wasn't as pretty as other girls—not as tall or curvaceous, not as confident in her looks or actions. However, every time Sherlock proved my doubts wrong, it flooded me with a high I'd never experienced.

Once I finished my tea, I picked out some clothes with a bit more care than normal. I decided on some of my nicer jeans—a pair that didn't have any holes in them. With it, I wore a simple black tee under a red plaid button-down shirt; It went well with my yellow scarf. I then grabbed the hat Sherlock had gifted me for Christmas and my black coat before heading out of my room and down the stairs.

When I entered the kitchen, John was at the dining table, typing away at his laptop. He glanced up and looked me over with a small level of surprise.

"Do we have a case?" he asked.

"Why d'you ask that?" I replied.

"Well, you're dressed to go outside," John said with a small laugh.

"It's hardly my fault pajama pants are the ideal form of comfort," I said, walking over to his side to peer down at his screen.

John was working on his blog, something I wasn't surprised about. He was documenting a case we'd done a few weeks ago involving a tourist and how his hotel receptionist killed him. When he saw me looking, John cleared his throat awkwardly and closed the lid of his laptop, but not before I managed to read a small passage of it.

"'Though I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing, I have started coming to terms about Maxine and Sherlock being together,'" I quoted and met my brother's eyes. "So, you're going public with it?"

"Er, well... yes," John murmured, drumming his fingers on his laptop.

"He did two blog posts ago," Sherlock said as he emerged from his room, putting on his scarf as he went.

"What?" I exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you read my blogs," John countered.

"I do—well, I'm a bit behind, but..." I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassment washing over me.

"Deadline?" John guessed.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "She'd be dead on her feet. You know how she puts it off to the last week then doesn't sleep for forty-eight hours."

"I've got two mangas to keep track of now," I defended.

" _And_ you've got a dating life, I suppose," John sighed, glancing between Sherlock and me. "For the record, it's gotten amazing views. I think it's brought in more business too."

"Why do people care?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"It makes you seem more human, more relatable," John explained. "Speaking of... what are you two doing, exactly? Going out?"

"Is that a problem?" Sherlock replied in a clipped tone.

John rolled his eyes. "Don't take that tone again. I miss the days when you were more worried about my opinion on this whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing."

Sherlock offered him a brief smile that almost seemed smug. I smacked the detective's arm with the back of my hand before addressing my brother.

"We're going on date," I said, though the words came out too structured, like a robot had spoken them.

"A date?" John echoed. "Like... a _normal_ date? Dinner? Cinema? Stroll in the park?"

"Why doesn't anyone think that's possible for us?" Sherlock muttered, heading toward the door. "Don't get into any trouble while we're out."

John gave a small snort of amusement. "Good luck. Don't... I dunno, start any fires or something else equally disastrous."

I smiled at him before following Sherlock down the stairs and out onto Baker Street. For a moment, the two of us stood on the sidewalk side-by-side. I glanced over at Sherlock and gave a nervous chuckle.

"We're off to a grand start," I said.

"Oh stop, I'm thinking," Sherlock retorted. He looked to the left and right along the street, pursing his lips in thought. "Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly," I said.

"Cinema it is, then," Sherlock said.

He started walking toward the road to hail a cab, but paused after a few steps and came back to take my hand in his. I laughed at the awkwardness of it as he pulled me along after him.

Once in the cab, Sherlock gave the driver the address of one of the theatre's, though I noted that it wasn't the one that was closest to Baker Street. As the taxi pulled onto the road and began taking us to our destination, I cast the detective a puzzled look.

"Why that one?" I asked.

"Hm?" Sherlock had been staring out the window and turned to face me when I spoke.

"The theatre," I said. "Isn't there another one that's closer? That one's all the way in Whitechapel."

"Oh, that." Sherlock took out his mobile and peered at the screen. "This one has better reviews, apparently."

I narrowed my eyes slightly, suspicion prickling the back of my mind. Sherlock didn't seem the type to take online reviews into account before going to see a movie. Most of the time, they were just rants and ravings of people who enjoyed being offended. It was a rare day when those who had positive experiences felt the need to speak their mind—humans clung to negativity as if it were second nature.

"Er, what about this one," Sherlock went on, leaning over to show me his phone's screen. "New James Bond film."

I groaned and shook my head. "I think I'm all right without the stereotypical British spy and his sexy lady friend that will inevitably show up purely for the sake of a romantic encounter and not for anything plot-related."

"Ooh, bitter on that, are we?" Sherlock teased.

"It's the same formula over and over," I said. "What else is playing? Is there something fantasy?"

"Fantasy?" Sherlock raised his brows at me.

"What's the point in divulging in fiction unless it contains something we can't normally attain?" I said. "Dragons, super powers, bizarre creatures of inhuman nature..."

"There's a film on vampires that's rather highly reviewed," Sherlock said, bringing up another photo.

"No-no-no-no-no, not Twilight," I said, shaking my head fervently. "I don't know how that franchise is getting away with spacing its last book into _two_ movies. Harry Potter is understandable, that's actually a series with some worth."

Sherlock laughed lightly and put his phone down. "I should have known you'd be difficult to please when it came to this."

"I'm not apologizing for wanting quality in the fiction I take in," I muttered, folding my arms.

"Well, what about this one?" Sherlock clicked another film poster. "This one I know: J. R. Tolkien. The Hobbit."

"Oh!" I peered down at the photo. "That's right, they're splitting it into three parts. Another book that can get away with it. Er..." I frowned at the actor on the front of the poster. "Bilbo looks a lot like John, doesn't he?"

Sherlock looked down at his mobile, furrowing his brow. "Now that you mention it, there is a strange resemblance, isn't there? Well, as a hobbit, he's probably the same height as John."

I nearly choked on my own saliva when I gasped with both amusement and shock at Sherlock's quip.

"That one," I managed to say after clearing my throat. "Let's see that one."

When we arrived at the theatre, we had a few minutes before seating was going to be started for the movie. We took a seat in the lobby and Sherlock pursed his lips as he peered out the expansive windows that covered the front of the building, looking out over the parking lot.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked and looked back at me. "Sorry, what?"

"You had that look on your face," I told him.

He looked taken aback. "What look?"

"The one you get when you're trying to figure something out," I replied, leaning toward him from across the table. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"What? No. No, of course not," Sherlock assured, shifting in his seat to face me properly. "You've my full attention."

I grinned a little, knowing he was lying, but I decided to set it aside for now. Sherlock would tell me in due time, I was sure.

"So, tell me, how exactly did Mycroft take it when he found out we were taking this seriously?" I asked.

Sherlock's face scrunched up as it usually did when there was mention of his brother. He cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"Well, he found out by outside means, naturally," he said. "I'd never tell him myself, it isn't worth his infuriating criticisms."

"Did he phone you?" I tilted my head.

"If only," Sherlock muttered. "No, he had to find me when I was out on an errand and alone, of course..."

* * *

 _Sherlock_

Nearly a month back, I had been out to follow up on a promising case. Someone had killed an American tourist and I was determined to see if it was worth my time or would be better suited for the Scotland Yard. When I was trying to find a cab to take me back to Baker Street, a sleek black car had pulled up to the curb where I was walking and the passenger side window rolled down to reveal none other than my older brother.

"Mycroft," I said, sighing in exasperation. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'd like to talk," Mycroft replied. His expression was stern—a look he tended to adopt whenever he was irritated with me. "Dinner?"

"Nope, sorry, I've got plans," I said, turning and continuing my walk down the street.

The black car slowly followed me.

"Sherlock, get in the car," Mycroft insisted.

"What part of 'plans' didn't you understand?" I retorted without looking at him.

Mycroft groaned in annoyance. "Stop here, yes, stop. I'll be fine. Stay here."

The black car halted and Mycroft got out of the vehicle. He had his black umbrella with him, the one he kept even when there was clear skies. Using it as a walking stick, he strode after me and tapped my ankle with the tip of it when he reached my side.

"I read John's latest blog," Mycroft said. "The Christmas/New Year special?"

"Did you? Fascinating," I replied sarcastically, not slowing in my stride or bothering to look at him.

"It chronicled a most interesting event," Mycroft went on. "One in which you told Doctor Watson that you were going to begin dating his younger sister."

I pressed my lips into a tight line and refused to satisfy my brother with any acknowledgement. I quickened my pace, eager to get to a main street and find a cab to get me away from him.

"I thought you and her were a simple fling yet now it seems serious enough for John to blog about." Mycroft pressed.

"Mycroft, I'm in the middle of a case," I said irritably.

"Oh, the one about tourist?" Mycroft scoffed. "We both know it's the hotel receptionist."

"It would be delightful if you could stop spying on me," I muttered.

"So you're really in a serious relationship with Maxine?" Mycroft said. "You don't plan on ending this foolishness?"

"From what I recall, you find her quite appealing as well," I replied, my voice tight with rising anger. "Is that why you're frustrated? Or were you hoping all the games you were playing would show me how having any sort of strong connection to her would be a disadvantage for me?"

"It _is_ a disadvantage," Mycroft insisted. "How do you expect to remain on your best game when your mind fogs with these ridiculous feelings for her?"

"My feelings for her don't fog my mind," I retorted. "They sharpen it."

Mycroft snorted with amusement and disbelief. "Listen to yourself, little brother... you sound like school girl."

I stopped dead in my tracks and finally turned to face Mycroft. I locked my heated glare on his eyes and felt my breath begin to fall out of my control in my rising rage.

"For once in my life, I feel something more than just boredom and idle stimulus," I snarled. "Max makes me feel valued beyond just a problem-solving detective. She _sees_ me. _Really_ sees me. And I see her. So, let me say this once and only once."

I took a step closer to him, leaning my face into his so our noses were a mere millimeter apart.

" _I don't care about your opinion on the matter,_ " I whispered sharply. "Nothing you say or do is going to change anything. So I suggest you get back into your fancy car and leave."

Mycroft didn't even flinch. He stared back at me with a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. After a moment, he gave a small smirk and shook his head, chuckling softly.

"You think the two of you can truly do this?" he said. "Play the ideal couple? Sherlock, you don't even understand the concept of courting—especially not on an emotional level. I would make a bet that you couldn't survive a single, normal date."

I took a step back from him and furrowed my brow. "Define normal."

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "Taking her to the cinema, going for strolls in the park, visiting the museums. Things that other, _normal_ couples do all the time, some even once a week."

"Isn't the point just to spend time together?" I asked. "We already do that."

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "See? _This_ is what I mean. You don't have the capacity to be in a relationship with anyone, Sherlock. I'm not sure Maxine does either. Quit while you're ahead."

I scoffed. "You don't understand the first thing about us, Mycroft," I told him. "I'll see your bet. I guarantee we'll survive and entire day of dates. Cinema, dinner, the whole thing."

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose and gave me a pitying look. It infuriated me. He shook his head again and tapped his umbrella against the ground.

"All right, little brother," he said. "Go on and prove to me that you can play along with all the other people in the world."

Part of me knew Mycroft was trying to show me how I was attempting to become mundane and ordinary like the common people that inhabited this planet. However, he didn't understand the level I could operate fueled by spite alone. Maxine and I would never be like other couples, I knew that. We'd never be satisfied by merely going to a restaurant to eat together or holding hands while watching a movie. Out relationship had blossomed in the heat of strenuous cases and when our lives or the lives of others were on the line. Its flames were fanned by the constant threat of death and the thrill of adventure.

Unfortunately, I never could pass up an opportunity to prove Mycroft wrong. Even if normal dating wasn't in our nature, I would show my older brother that I was serious about Maxine—that I wanted her beside me for the rest of my life.

When I finished explaining the encounter with Mycroft to Maxine in the theatre lobby, she smiled and gave a small chuckle.

"He was really doing all those things to poke at you?" she asked. "The whole kissing my hand and showering me in compliments?"

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he meant the compliments," I replied. "Even Mycroft can appreciate a beautiful woman."

Maxine's cheeks tinged red and she lowered her gaze nervously. I often forgot how bashful she was when it came to praise regarding her looks. It wasn't something I commented on too much; perhaps I should start doing it more often... she looked awfully cute when she was shy.

"He doesn't approve of us, though?" Maxine asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

"Mycroft doesn't approve of most of the things I do in life," I said. "His opinion doesn't matter, Max, I assure you. He's just trying to prove a point. He loves doing that."

"I'm glad you stood up for us to him," Maxine murmured, smiling again.

"I'd do nothing else," I said, checking the time on my mobile. "The theatre should be opening up. Shall we go sit through a half hour of ads and trailers?"

"The trailers are the best part," Maxine said, getting to her feet.

I sent one more glance out the front windows of the theatre and wondered how fast it would be to enter the alleyway from the parking lot. Was the entrance visible from there? I'd make a more thorough search after the movie.

The cinema was, of course, quite long. We watched as Bilbo Baggins was taken along on an adventure by Gandalf and several dwarves. All in all, it was a adequate film. Some of the fight scenes broke the laws of physics, but I went by some advice Maxine had given me regarding fiction and put it aside to enjoy the story.

When I grew bored, I would sneak glances at her. She stared up at the screen with eyes full of awe and hunger. Maxine had said on multiple occasions that fiction is one of the things that kept her going. She adored the impossible and the fantastic; I assumed that was part of why she loved throwing herself into danger so much as well. She wanted to simulate the feeling of being part of some grand adventure.

I marveled at her expression. I'd always been desperate to find appeal in the fictional world of cinemas, books, and later even a few video games, but nothing could hold my attention like the thrill of a good case. Maxine and I had a lot in common, but she held onto a connection to this world that I couldn't—the fantasy world of other people's minds. There was something strangely intimate about reading another person's invented tale or watching their created project on screen. It was like they were sharing a piece of their soul.

That was something I was never good at—intimacy. Kissing Maxine and holding her hand was still a wild and unpredictable ride for me: one that I both cherished and longed to get on again and that I wanted to bail out of at the first opportunity, screaming. She was purity and chaos all at the same time—bliss and sheer anxiety.

Yet, I was pleased I'd managed to ask her out and that she agreed. I was utterly thrilled that I could call her mine and she could call me hers. There was something... liberating about the whole thing; but I was still terrified most of the time. I couldn't help but wonder if she felt the same or if sharing herself like this was easy like how she shared her manga to the world.

As the movie went on, the two of us held hands on and off. I think both of us realized that while the physical connection was pleasant, the hand sweat wasn't. A small jolt would shoot through me every time out skin touched again. I simultaneously wanted to smack her hand away and hold onto it even tighter.

When the film finally ended, Maxine stretched her arms up over her head and gave a contented sigh. I realized that I'd never actually sat through a full cinema at the theatre before; I'd always lost interest and left. Yet Maxine had managed to hold my attention for two and a half hours.

"Well, that was nice," she said as the lights overhead began to shine brighter. "A few differences from the books, but that's always to be expected. Besides, I love J. R. Tolkien, but the Hobbit was a rather dry read."

Maxine looked over to see me staring at her. She slowly perked a brow and her cheeks began to pink.

"Uh, is there something on my face?" she asked with a nervous laugh.

"Er, no, no." I shook my head and adverted my gaze. "My apologies. I just..." I'd been admiring her beauty, but I didn't feel comfortable admitting that. Despite us being together, there were certain boundaries I was uncertain of.

Maxine smiled lightly at me as she got to her feet. "You flatter me," she murmured.

Of course she knew. I sighed and stood up as well. "No, I _fancy_ you," I corrected, taking her hand in mine to lead her out of the theatre.

Once outside, I began to walk toward the alleyway, Maxine's hand still in mine.

"Where are we going?" she inquired. "The main road's the other way."

"Yes, but the restaurant I'd like us to go to is nearby," I said. "This is a shortcut."

Maxine gave me another knowing grin and squeezed my hand. "All right. Whatever you say."

When we entered the alley, it was empty save a couple of bins. The scent was faintly sour from garbage, but there was something else clinging to the air as well—something sharp and sterile.

"Did someone clean the pavement down here?" Maxine said, glancing around. "It smells of bleach."

"Mm, yes. I was more intent on getting here before they cleaned up the crime scene, but I didn't get word of this one until the day after it happened," I replied.

Maxine beamed at me. "So we _are_ on a case," she whispered with excitement.

I returned her smile. "Of course, what sort of date would it be without one?" I paused about halfway down the alley and released her hand to dig into my coat pocket. "Though, if it's all right with you, I'd like to keep pretending it's a normal day out so that I can win fifty pounds from Mycroft."

Maxine laughed. "Oh, anything to spurn your brother."

I pulled out my magnifier and squatted on the ground. There were still dark stains on the pavement from the gored body. I peered at it with my magnifier, letting my mind slip into deduction mode. It was surprisingly easy despite how caught up I was in my feelings for Maxine.

"What do we have?" Maxine prompted.

"Male, 21 years old, named Arthur Quinn," I explained. "Killed in a savage dog attack, according to the papers."

"But not according to you?" Maxine guessed.

"I managed to get some pictures from the autopsy," I replied. "Molly was kind enough to send them my way when I asked."

Maxine's face twisted a bit at the sound of Molly's name. I sighed and looked up at her.

"I wasn't manipulative, I assure you," I said. "I think she's actually quite grateful to you."

"How d'you mean?" Maxine asked.

"Well..." I cleared my throat awkwardly. "She's been running off this false hope for so long that we'd end up together. You sort of cemented it in her mind that it won't happen. Now she can move on."

"You really think she doesn't have a crush on you anymore?" Maxine said disbelievingly.

"Most girls would be jealous, not worried that their boyfriend was exploiting someone's feelings without any romantic intent," I pointed out.

"Well, if I was _most girls,_ you wouldn't be dating me," Maxine retorted.

I shrugged in amendment. Turning my attention back on the stains, I pocketed my magnifier and pulled out my mobile. "There are certain wounds on the young man that isn't consistent with the bites of a dog. They're very subtle—very carefully hidden. I was hoping to take a look at the body in person, but Mycroft showed up."

"What marks are you on about?" Maxine said, crouching beside me.

I brought up the photos on my phone and zoomed in on the man's neck. Most of it had been torn out—his cause of death, according to Molly—but just above the ripped flesh was a small, bloody pinprick.

"A bug bite?" Maxine frowned.

"No," I said. "A needle mark. Someone injected him with a sedative. When I asked Molly to test for it, the results came back positive. Someone rendered him unconscious and then did all this to him. Look."

I zoomed out then went back in on a different picture, this of the man's right hand.

"Here we see dark fur is under his nails and in his palm, suggesting he attempted to defend himself from a German Shepherd or another large dog. Someone was intent on making this look like something it isn't. It's very well done; it fooled the police and Molly even though no one heard the attack and there were no witnesses either."

I flipped to another picture, this one focused on bite wounds on the man's right arm and shoulder.

"These bite marks aren't consistent with how a dog actually bites," I said. "A dog bites down and pulls. There's no drag on the puncture wounds—it's like he was just stabbed with the teeth straight down. But these _are_ bite marks from the upper and lower jaws of a large herding dog. So, the killer used actual jaw bones—or replicated jaw bones—from a dog to make them."

Maxine shook her head and furrowed her brow in bewilderment. "So they make their murder look like a dog did it. Bizarre, but I suppose it would have worked if it wasn't for you."

I frowned back at the stains on the ground. "I don't know," I murmured. "I feel like there's something more to it, something that I'm missing."

"What d'you mean?" Maxine asked.

"Why a dog attack?" I said, looking over at her. "There are easier things to use to cover up a murder. Countless poisons, framing other people, disposing of the body completely... this person is clearly stealthy enough to leave the body here before anyone noticed. He moved this man here, sedated, then proceeded to kill him by way of a dog's jaws."

"So, what now?" Maxine asked with a small sigh.

"Not certain," I admitted, standing and peering around the alley. "I'd hoped I would be able to find something more at the scene but Anderson and his ilk have stripped it clean... there's nothing of use for me here. Let's go eat. Perhaps we'll think of something on full stomaches."

Maxine nodded and we both stood. This time, she was the one who took my hand before we began to walk. The motion startled me; I wasn't used to her making any moves toward physical contact, not in public at least. I fought down the jolting sensation it shot through my body and forced myself to concentrate.

* * *

 _Maxine_

Sherlock took us to a small restaurant that was just inside Whitechapel. They served rather delicious Mexican food and as I chewed my burrito, I glanced up at the detective across the table from me. He was staring out the window with a pensive expression, clearly trying to make pieces fit together. My own mind was buzzing with discontent. I kept thinking about the email Miyako sent me.

Part of me wanted to tell Sherlock about it, but I had a feeling he'd overreact. Mycroft was right about Sherlock's feelings affecting his normally rational mind. Even back when he first found out the truth about my time in Japan, the detective had been uncharacteristically emotional. Perhaps that was when his feelings for me had first started developing. If I told him about the email, he'd likely call off our date and the case we were sneakily working and put me on 24 hour police protection.

I took out my mobile and looked at it from under the table. My email account was linked to it, and I could see the one from Miyako on the unread list. My heart gave an insistent thud against my chest as if egging me to open it. My friend could be in serious trouble and I might be able to help her, or... it was the Yakuza trying to locate me to use me against her.

Regardless of the truth, it would be dangerous to open the email, and that was why it was so damned tempting.

"It's a message," Sherlock suddenly said.

I blinked, startled out of my inner turmoil. I locked my phone and looked up at him.

"Sorry?" I said.

Sherlock turned to meet my eyes. "Why else would someone kill someone in such a manner?" he replied. "It's a message. He's trying to communicate with someone. But who? The man's family? Friends? Who was Arthur Quinn connected to that would warrant such a thing?"

His eyes began to gleam and his lips began to twist in a small smile. It was the look of delighted realization he'd often get during cases—a look I cherished. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand.

"We've got something," he said. "We'll look into Quinn's colleagues, friends, family. There must be something there."

"Does he have family in London?" I asked.

"Let's find out." Sherlock released my hand and took out his mobile. He typed on the screen, either sending a text or searching the internet.

I took another bite of my burrito as he worked and cast my eyes out the window. It was beginning to rain outside and passerby took out their umbrellas or hurried down the street if they were unlucky enough to lack one. I spotted a small tour group all clutching pamphlets with jagged red font reading: _RIPPER STREETS._ Of course, being in Whitechapel, tourists often were eager to walk the streets and alleys that Jack the Ripper left his victims.

"We're near one of the sights?" I inquired, nodding at the group out the window.

Sherlock looked up from his phone long enough to follow my gaze before refocusing on texting. "Yes—just down the street is where they found Anne Chapman. Ah, looks like Arthur has an older brother. Kyle Quinn, 26. He lives in Westminster. Seems the police have already questioned him once, according to Lestrade."

I ate more of my burrito before responding. "Did Lestrade think he was suspicious in any way?"

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock replied dryly. "Of course he didn't. He was even going to let this one be chalked off as an animal attack."

"Shall we go ask some questions of our own, then?" I suggested.

"Yes—it looks like there's an art shop nearby his flat. We can use that as our excuse for going over there," Sherlock said.

Outside, there was a sudden cry of shock and horror. More joined it by the time I turned my head in time to see the tour group members were moving back from the building next door. Sherlock was immediately on his feet, his eyes sharpening. I went after him, abandoning what was left of my burrito on the plate.

When we exited the restaurant, we hurried down the sidewalk toward the center of the block. The shops were all connected as one large complex, and consuming nearly half of the massive building was a car dealership. Number 29 bore a black door and didn't have any windows like the rest of the dealership. Graffiti tags covered the brick wall and door, showing that not much care was given to it.

From the roof hanged the thing that sent the tourists scattering. A young woman's body was strung up by her neck and her gut had been slashed open to allow her innards to spill out. Her blood was still seeping from her wounds down onto the walkway and she swung back and forth slowly.

This _just_ happened. Whoever did it might still be on the roof.

Sherlock must have been thinking the same thing, for he rushed forward down the street to our right. I turned and sprinted after him, heart hammering in my ears. We turned the corner in front of the dealership, but Sherlock ran right past the entrance. It wasn't likely they had access to the roof from inside in a building like this. We'd have better luck in the alley.

Sure enough, when we turned down the alley, there was a latter leading up to the roof near the bins. Sherlock propelled himself up it two rungs at a time and was on the roof before I could even grab the ladder. Hurrying after him, I clamored over the lip of the roof and got to my feet. Sherlock had ran toward the center of the roof where a bucket sat with a rope attached to it. There had to be some sort of weights inside of it to be a decent enough anchor for the swinging body.

I looked left and right, panting as I searched for any sign of the murderer. The roof was flat and didn't have many objects to hide behind. Whoever did this wasn't up here any longer. Sherlock seemed to realize there wasn't much point in searching further; our perpetrator was gone—lost in the crowds below. He pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear as I trotted to his side. Sure enough, there were three cinder blocks inside the large bucket holding up the body.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said into his mobile. "Don't suppose you've gotten a 999 call regarding a body at 29 Hansbury Street... Yes, yes, Max and I are already here..." He paused, listening while stepping over to the roof's edge and peering down at the corpse. "You might want to hurry. There's quite a crowd." He switched off his phone and pocketed it before walking back to the bucket.

"Sherlock..." I said slowly as he examined the bucket without touching it. "This... this is the same address as the Ripper murder, isn't it? 29?"

Sherlock nodded. "Seems another case has fallen in our lap," he murmured. "Someone's copycat murdering off Jack the Ripper." He exhaled sharply through his nose as he straightened up. "He couldn't dump the body in a back garden because it doesn't exist anymore, so instead..."

"He tosses the body off the roof after he..." I trailed off as I spotted the blanket laid out nearby. It was a dark purple shade and its plush surface was stained with a large blood pool. A single tool laid on it, blood-stained like the blanket—a sickle. Next to it laid a piece of paper weighed down by a small stone.

"The murder weapon, I'm assuming," Sherlock said, following my gaze. "And a note."

I nervously walked over to the blanket and squatted down next to it. The stone obscured most of the writing on it. Sherlock came to my side and stared down at it with me.

"Should we move anything?" I asked. "Forensics—"

"Oh, Anderson will survive with a picture," Sherlock muttered, pulling out his mobile and snapping a photograph. He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something, then he turned the phone's camera to face me and took another picture.

I blinked at the abruptness of it and frowned at him. "Why'd you do that?" I asked.

"I've been meaning to get more pictures of you," Sherlock replied without meeting my gaze. "It's nice to be able to look at them when you're not around. Anyway, what's this note say?"

Crouching beside me, Sherlock reached into his pocket to stow his phone away and pull out some latex gloves.

"You had some with you?" I asked incredulously.

Sherlock then handed me my own pair and winked. "Of course."

I laughed softly before pulling on the gloves. Sherlock reached forward and grabbed the paper before removing the stone. He then held the letter between us so we could both read it. The script was elegant and written in red ink. It read:

 _From Hell,_

 _Dear Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll be sending you Miss Francine's kidney on the 'morrow so that you might know me. Think of it as a gift. I do hope you tell your friend Sherlock about it. I'd love to play with him._

"'From Hell...'" I breathed. "Jack the Ripper was said to have sent a letter titled that, and he sent the Inspector half a kidney."

"Yes, though that letter was far less literate and was clearly a copycat killer to the true Jack the Ripper," Sherlock replied. "Regardless, this man is desperate to make an impression. He _wants_ to be noticed."

"Don't most serial killers?" I said.

"Certainly, but there's something else about it..." Sherlock murmured. "Why request for me personally?" His expression tightened with dread and confusion.

"Moriarty?" I whispered the dreaded name.

"No," Sherlock said. "No, no... Moriarty would be more direct, I think. He'd announce it was him in the letter."

"So someone else who's a fan of yours?" I suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's too soon to tell anything... Judging by this note, he wasn't expecting us to come across the crime scene before Lestrade, which tells us he didn't know we were eating just down the street."

"Huh." I shook my head in bewilderment. "Coincidences just don't seem possible for us."

"They _can_ happen on occasion," Sherlock admitted. He pulled a plastic baggy from his coat pocket and carefully put the letter inside.

"Do you just have crime scene gear on you all the time?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Comes in handy." He frowned down at the crime scene again. "He killed her here, but she didn't make a sound."

"Drugged her first," I said.

Sherlock nodded grimly. "We can make sure there's a toxicology report on the body. Perhaps we'll learn something from it..."

When the first police cars arrived to start sanctioning off the street, I peered over the ledge to look for Lestrade. Sherlock and I remained on the roof for the time being to examine what the killer left. We figured that moving the hanging body would make Anderson have an aneurism.

I spotted the Detective Inspector step out of one of the patrol cars and gape at the corpse with a mixture of horrified awe and barely-contained rage. I supposed that seeing a young girl butchered in such a fashion would anger the majority of people. It was awful—a part of my mind did register that—but there was another part that shoved aside the horror of it to instead focus on figuring out who did this and why.

Sherlock appeared at my side and called out, "Inspector!"

Lestrade lifted his head to see us. He blinked a few times and looked around for how we managed to get up on the roof.

"The alley," I explained. "There's a ladder."

"Is there anything up there?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh yes," Sherlock replied. "Hurry up, will you? I want to look at the body."

It took about a half an hour for the officers to bring the young woman's corpse down. In that time, we had to deal with Anderson's irate behavior about us 'contaminating' his crime scene. Sherlock didn't bother mentioning the note to him; in fact, he didn't bring it up until we were back on the ground where the body was laid out.

"Found this on the roof on the blanket," Sherlock said, shoving the bagged piece of paper against Lestrade's chest as he walked over to crouch by the corpse.

Lestrade read it and let out an exasperated huff. "Another killer looking for you specifically?"

"Another killer who's bored and wants a challenge," Sherlock corrected. He wrinkled his nose at the state of the girl's body and pulled his magnifier from his pocket.

"What were you two doing over here, anyway?" Lestrade asked.

"Er, lunch," I replied. Lestrade knew—like the rest of London thanks to John's blog—that Sherlock and I were dating, but he seemed to constantly forget about it.

"Oh? Oh." Lestrade blinked several times and cleared his throat awkwardly. "J-just lunch? Like... like a date?"

"Why is it so hard for people to believe?" Sherlock muttered as he carefully examined the girl's hands.

"We saw the first Hobbit movie earlier," I added. Perhaps planting the idea that Sherlock and I truly were on an ordinary date wouldn't force Sherlock to lose his bet with Mycroft, seeing as we certainly weren't going to complete a day's worth of activities with this case landing on top of us.

"Oh, yes, I heard that was out," Lestrade mused. "Doesn't the fellow that plays Bilbo look an awful lot like John?"

"We _do_ have a dead body here," Sherlock interjected. "Strange that I have to be the one to remind you of that, Inspector."

"Sorry," Lestrade said, looking down at the corpse. "I think I just wanted a momentary distraction. Poor girl. This guy is really copying Jack the Ripper?"

"You saw the letter," I said. "' _From Hell._ '"

"Yes, but..." Lestrade's face twisted up. "It doesn't add up, does it? That letter came from a different murder than that of Anne Chapman, who died here back in 1888."

"And a copycat-killer to boot," Sherlock put in, moving his magnifier up the girl's torn and bloodied sweater.

"It's like he has his facts wrong," I said. "Either that, or he is merely trying to emphasize the fact that he's doing this as a... loose reenactment of Jack the Ripper's work."

"Something to get attention," Sherlock said softly. "Something to snare the public's eye to ensure that..."

"That _you_ would end up on the case." I squatted down at Sherlock's side and eyed the girl's body.

"Are we _sure_ it's not Moriarty?" Lestrade pressed.

"He wasn't the one who did this," Sherlock murmured. "But that isn't to say he isn't involved somehow. Remember how he incited a cabbie to become a serial killer?"

"Well, I don't think Jeff Hope enjoyed his work," I pointed out. "Not _truly._ He gave off the impression, but he was already a dying man and he was acting to help his children. Whoever did this... they _cherished_ carving this girl."

"How can you tell?" Sherlock asked me, though I figured he already knew what I was talking about.

"Look at how clean the cuts are," I said, pointing to the girl's open gut. "Smooth, precise, like a stroke of an artist's brush. He left the things up on the roof for us as well—a staged crime scene. He could have experience with surgical work, or he could simply be very, _very_ even-handed. With a _sickle_ no less."

"I agree," Sherlock murmured, looking back at the body. "Though, with how those cuts are... I don't think that the sickle was the thing to cut her open."

"So why leave the bloodied sickle?" Lestrade asked.

"Not certain," Sherlock replied. "Have it tested—make sure the blood on it belongs to the victim. Seems there are organs missing—her kidneys, her uterus and ovaries."

"Just like some of Jack the Ripper's victims," Lestrade rasped.

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Anne Chapman was the second victim. I'm going to suggest that you have police watching the other murder sights, Lestrade, and check your missing persons reports for young women."

"Y-yeah, of course," Lestrade stammered. "That's the best course of action. I'll get word back to the station. Take a few more minutes to get what you can. I can't keep Anderson back for much longer."

As Lestrade stepped away while pulling out his mobile, I turned to face Sherlock.

"Any idea who this girl is?" I asked. "Perhaps there's something about her identity that can help us."

"Mm..." Sherlock shifted closer to the girl's legs and carefully reached into her jean pockets. He found a wallet in the left one and flipped it open to peer at the ID inside. "Heather Peterson. 19." He pursed his lips as he replaced the wallet. "She lives nearby. I'd assume still with her parents, given the quality of her clothes." He pulled out her mobile from another pocket and switched it on. After going through it for a moment, he put it back and exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Should we go speak with the family?" I inquired as Sherlock got to his feet, stowing away his magnifier.

"No, no," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Lestrade or someone else needs to inform them of her death first. At times, it can be valuable to witness family members' first reaction, but I feel in this case, they'll be useless for the next twenty-four hours."

"What makes you say that?" I tilted my head at him as I straightened up.

"No sign of bruising or other signs of neglect or abuse on her," Sherlock replied. "Her contacts in her phone list a father, but not a mother. Single father, most likely—cherishes his daughter, given the photos, but not in an unhealthy sense. Doubtful he's involved."

"Oh, well, then..." I glanced over the body once more, furrowing my brow. "So, what, we just sit on this until tomorrow? Or did you find something else?"

"Nothing on this one, but we still have Arthur Quinn's brother to go speak to," Sherlock replied. "Lestrade will contact us if there's anything else of note, but I doubt he'll find anything here at the scene."

"Not often another case falls into our lap while we're working one," I noted softly. "But yes, let's go see the brother. What's his name again?"

"Kyle," Sherlock said. "Not too far from here; we can walk. Don't think we could get a cab anyway with all the police around..."

With that, the detective replaced the dead girl's items back in her pockets and peeled off his latex gloves. As we walked out of the crime scene, Anderson and Donovan shot us some heated glares.

"Why am I not surprised to see the two of you here before us?" Anderson snarled. "Interesting development. Dead bodies tend to follow you lot."

"Perhaps because that's my line of work," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Is it true you're actually dating that lunatic?" Donovan demanded of me.

I blinked and glanced over at Sherlock while I took his hand. "Is that so surprising? And I didn't know you read John's blog, Sergeant."

Donovan's cheeks darkened and she glanced away. "Knew there was something up with you. I suppose freaks ought to keep together—no-one else will take you."

Sherlock's grip on my hand tightened slightly and paused before Donovan to glare down at her. "Well, at least us _freaks_ understand the concept of monogamy and faithfulness. Anderson, get a different cologne—this one is far to potent."

Leaving the two speechless, he pulled me along after him under the police tape and down the road. A smile creeped along my lips and I looked over at him.

"You've never let the 'freak' word bother you that much before," I said.

"It's different when it's just me they're insulting," Sherlock said. "It doesn't bother me too much anymore. However, for them to speak ill of _you_ is an entirely new story—one that doesn't end well for them."

A warmth fluttered through me at his protectiveness. I beamed at him and gave his hand a light squeeze. "Well, I couldn't care less what they say. Your opinion is what matters to me. Well, John's too, I suppose."

"I can assure you that my opinion of you is immeasurably high," Sherlock replied.

He glanced toward me and we paused for a moment. The detective seemed fidgety and unsure of himself as his eyes darted between the two of mine.

"What?" I asked with a small nervous laugh.

"I'm just... I'd like to kiss you right now." Sherlock then looked around us where there were several people coming and going—pedestrians attracted to the police tape like moths to a flame.

We still weren't good at expressing our affection toward one another in front of other people. It was like there was some strange sort of veil between us that we had to fight to get through—one that both of us felt like we'd drown in if we stayed inside it too long.

"Why is chasing and fighting killers so much easier than this?" I whispered.

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and smiled. "This is a different sort of... vulnerability."

I hesitantly moved one hand to his shoulder and began to pull him closer. Seeming pleased about the initiated move, Sherlock obliged by leaning in, pressing his lips against mine. It was a brief, electric moment, and then we pulled away from one another abruptly, both warily glancing around.

No-one seemed the least bit interested in us.

"Hoo..." I breathed through my still-tingling lips. "Well. That was..."

"Terrifying," Sherlock said. He was staring into my eyes again. "Sh...shall we try again?"

I gave one small laugh before his hand cupped the back of my neck to bring me in again. This time, we remained against one another for longer. It was a deep, heated feeling. It made me forget everything but him—his curly hair in my fingers and his chest pressed against mine. Then, we separated slowly, both of us out of breath.

"Ah..." Sherlock rasped. "Well... let's get to the Quinn residence, yes?"

"Yeah," I replied, my smile coming easier to me this time.


	37. A Hunt For an Artist, Part 2

_Sherlock_

I pushed my thumb against the buzzer as rain began to patter down. Maxine dug into her bag and pulled out a bright green pocket umbrella and popped it open to hold it over both of us. We were just outside the listed residence of Arthur and Kyle Quinn. The building was rather well-kept, but it was still a part of town that was inhabited by those of lower-income.

After a few moments, I tried the buzzer again. I frowned as I looked up—the Quinn residence was on the second floor. I would attempt the balcony jump trick again, but I didn't see any evidence of new people in the building. I frowned at the buzzer and intercom as the silence stretched on.

"Perhaps he's out?" Maxine suggested.

"Unlikely," I replied. I pointed to the bike rack near the front doors. "Bicycle there—the red one—it has initials carved into the side of the frame just under the handlebars. _KQ._ Kyle Quinn. Why have a bike that old and that worn if you have a car? Most don't own cars in London anyway—especially those of low-income. No, he's here..."

I pursed my lips and walked toward the main building. Luckily, it didn't require one to be buzzed in. As I stepped inside, Maxine hurriedly closed her umbrella and followed after me.

"He did just lose his brother," she noted as we ascended a flight of stairs to the second floor. "Could be he doesn't fancy company."

"True," I said. "But regardless, we need to speak to him."

We found the Quinns' flat number and I knocked heavily on the door. We stood there for a few seconds, waiting, but there wasn't any sound from inside—no indication that there was anyone inside at all.

Maxine began to frown and she shook off the droplets from her umbrella before fully folding it up and putting it in her pocket. She lowered herself onto the ground and laid herself up against the door to peer beneath it.

"What are you hoping to see?" I asked her with a furrowed brow. "There's not enough space."

"And no light inside," Maxine replied. "I'm not trying to _see._ I'm trying to smell."

"Smell? Oh." It suddenly hit me. "You think he's dead?"

"Well, last time we snuck into someone's flat when they were supposedly not home, we found them dead in their bedroom," Maxine said. "Er, well, it wasn't the _last_ time we broke into someone's flat, but you understand..."

She shoved her nose close to the bottom of the door and inhaled deeply. She took a few experimental sniffs before giving a small cough and recoiling.

"What—what is it?" I asked as she got to her feet.

"Well, something smells a bit off in there," Maxine said, rubbing her nose. "At first it just smelled like dirty socks, but then something else hit me. Something rotten."

I pursed my lips and looked over the door, trying to decide between kicking it down and picking the lock. Before I could decide, Maxine pulled out a bobby pin from her pocket and knelt down in front of the door. I raised my brows at her.

"Since when did you learn to pick a lock?" I asked.

"Since I was fifteen," Maxine replied. "You've just never given methe chance to have a go."

I laughed softly as she got to work. Her stone-blue eyes were sharp as she inserted the twisted bobby pin and began to jiggle it about carefully. After a moment, there was a click and she twisted the pin with a triumphant grin. The door opened wide and she got to her feet, casting me a smile.

"Impressive," I told her.

Maxine seemed pleased, but then her face twisted in mild disgust at the stench that came wafting out of the flat.

"Oh, that's rank," she said through small coughs.

"That's death," I murmured, stepping inside.

The first area was a small entrance hall where shoes and coats were put up. It bloomed into a living room with a sofa, two beanbag chairs, and an entertainment system with an old gaming console hooked up to it. Given the two controllers near it, I took that the brothers must have spent a lot of time playing together—they were close.

We didn't have to explore the hall to our left or the kitchen on our right to find the source of the smell. There was blood spots on the beige carpet leading around to the sofa. The back was facing us and when we got close enough to look over it, we saw the body.

Maxine gave a small gasp and took a step back. It wasn't often something could get to her; by now she'd seen plenty of bodies. She'd even just seen the strung up girl with her gut torn open and organs missing. I looked down at the corpse of who could only be Kyle Quinn and tried to discern what set off her discomfort.

Kyle was the older of the brothers, but he was smaller in stature. His hair was dyed a bright blond and was wild—whether that was his preferred style or just how it was in his death I couldn't tell yet. His eyes were wide and staring up at the ceiling. There was far more blood on this side of the sofa. I wasn't a doctor like John, but I assumed the loss of it was ultimately what stole Kyle's life. There was a deep gash in his abdomen that sliced up toward his sternum. It was pried wider—post-mortem, I guessed—to reveal his ravaged insides. It looked as if someone took an electronic egg beater to his guts.

However, the most peculiar thing was the headphones.

There was a pair of large, over-the-ear, sound-canceling headphones loosely gripped in Kyle's hand which laid on the edge of the sofa cushions. The cord coiled around his tricep and then led inside his stomach. The jack wasn't visible beyond the gore that was left within his fatal wound.

It was bizarre, to say the least. My curiosity and hunger for knowledge throbbed against my skull, demanding answers. I knew Arthur was killed and now we find his older brother dead as well and with some sort of... calling card, perhaps? I turned to Maxine, narrowing my eyes. She hadn't been this appalled at the state of the girl's body, which meant that the headphones were what set her off; it was the only key difference between the two.

"You make something of this," I stated rather than asked. "What is it, Max?"

"I..." Maxine slowly shook her head and started blinking rapidly. "Sh-Sherlock, I think this is my fault." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

I frowned and stepped toward her, seeing the rising horror in her expression. "What d'you mean? How could it possibly be your fault?"

"Arthur Quinn, his brother here, and... and Heather Peterson—there deaths are all connected, Sherlock," Maxine said, meeting my gaze. "They're all for me."

I furrowed my brow, completely confused. "H-how do you mean? The From Hell note was for me, not you—how could all three deaths be connected?"

"You really haven't read my manga, have you?" Maxine asked.

I adverted my gaze nervously. "I-I glanced over the first volume..."

"It's all right," Maxine assured. "Manga isn't for everyone—but that's besides the point. Sherlock, in my manga, MANA, there are four major characters." She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Hawthorne, Sephare, Kazros, and... and his brother Arthus."

"Arthur..." I murmured, eyes widening. "It's a play off that name. And this-this Kazros, he's the—?"

"The older brother, yes," Maxine said. "And... his magic is sound-based. He... he actually has a headphone jack installed into his chest where he keeps headphones plugged in because his magic is so strong—that's besides the point. The point is that whoever did this put a pair of headphones _plugged_ into this man. And-and Arthus? My character, Arthus? His nickname is Canine because he has a massive dog as his familiar and a sword that can bite, sort of."

"And Arthur Quinn's death looked like a dog killed him." I ran my hands through my hair and turned around in a circle, my head beginning to thrum. "Wh-what about the girl? Heather Peterson? How do you know she's connected?"

"We know she wasn't killed with that sickle," Maxine explained. "My character Hawthorne... she uses a scythe as a weapon. Why would the killer leave that there for us to find when it wasn't even the murder weapon? Why else but to... to show me...?"

Maxine staggered a few steps back and gripped the sides of her head, her fingers tangling in her curly ginger locks as she stared across the room in sheer horror.

"Max, _Max._ " I went to her side and grabbed her shoulders. "Calm down, all right? Calm down. You need to talk to me. What is going on here? Why would someone do this? Do you have any idea?"

"I should've just told you," Maxine whispered weakly, closing her eyes tightly.

"Told me?" I ducked my head to stare into her face. "Told me what?"

Maxine exhaled shakily and opened her eyes to meet mine. She looked anguished and remorseful.

"This morning... I got an email from Kaida Miyako," Maxine said softly. "On my new email—the one I never gave her. The subject line read: _AKAGE PLEASE READ_ in all caps. I didn't open it, I swear. I just wanted time to process it before I told you or John about it."

I slowly released her and took a step back, pursing my lips. Maxine looked horrified at my expression of disappointment.

"Sherlock, I was going to tell you," she began to insist.

"You do recall what I told you the day I had you send your last email to her?" I said, my voice low and cold. "That it could lead the Yakuza to track down the IP address, therefore our location, therefore your identity."

"I never emailed her again after that!" Maxine said. "I did as you asked, I swear. This is the first time since then that I've heard from her. I have no idea how she got the new email, you have to believe me!"

"This can't be a coincidence," I muttered, glancing toward Kyle Quinn's body. "He's been here for a day, possibly longer. His brother was killed four days ago. They were planning this. And if they're killing people in this manner, that means they know who you are. They know you're the creator of that manga and they want this message to reach you."

"I-I don't know how they could have figured it out," Maxine rasped. "I-I was so careful and Miyako—she'd never betray me. Besides, why would they do anything to her to get my information? I was the one they wanted to control her—if they somehow got their hands on her, not only would she never divulge that information, but they wouldn't really have a need for me."

I shook my head. "There's more going on here," I said. "There are four major characters, you said? This Sephare, what are her unique traits? We know the pattern now, perhaps we can anticipate their next move."

"Er, Sephare uses concussive magic," Maxine explained quickly. "Breaks down walls and structures and the like. She can bust up someone's bones without having to wound them on the outside. Her familiar is this big suit of armor—it's even bigger than she is—something like eight feet tall."

"Suit of armor," I repeated. "That's most likely what they'll go for next."

"Or a collapsed building," Maxine said.

"No, suit of armor attracts more attention," I countered. "They want you to notice them."

Maxine stared down at the mutilated dead body for a moment before covering her mouth and turning away. Her shoulders trembled and she quickly left the flat. I exhaled through my nose before pulling out my mobile to text Lestrade. Maxine was used to solving crimes and catching killers but now she was the reason a killer was here—it didn't sit well with her. I wanted to examine the crime scene closer, but not only did I feel Maxine needed someone with her, but now I knew there was someone in London targeting her.

After the message was sent to Lestrade, I looked over the flat one more time before following Maxine outside.

She was sitting on the curb, her arms around her knees with her head resting in them. Her stone-blue eyes stared blankly ahead and her brows were drawn low over them into an expression of confusion and despair.

"Max..." I began, slowly sitting down beside her.

"It's my fault," Maxine whispered. "Three innocent people are dead because of me."

I pursed my lips. Admittedly, I had felt a certain level of guilt when Moriarty killed the old woman and the others in her building with the bomb. I knew that she would have never been in harm's way if I didn't exist. However, I didn't believe that I felt it as deeply as Maxine was feeling this. In some ways, she was more human than me—more connected with the world.

"You are not the one who killed them," I insisted. "You aren't the one who started to train you as an assassin to target the Yakuza. You're not whoever the Yakuza sent to do this. Max..." I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into my side. "This couldn't be farther from your fault."

Maxine closed her eyes and I saw a single tear roll down her cheek. I'd never seen Maxine cry, so the sight sent a jolt through me. I was trapped in a bizarre state where I wanted to let her go to scoot away. However, instead I pulled her closer to me, wrapping both my arms around her and kissed her hair gently. It smelled of strawberries and graphite.

"It's all right," I assured her softly. "We'll figure this out, I promise."

An intense fire ignited within me. I wasn't going to let anyone hurt Maxine—not physically or emotionally. We had to find this murderer before they made their fourth kill.

* * *

 _Maxine_

When I stumbled into the flat's living room, John was sitting in his normal chair by the fireplace typing away on his laptop. Sherlock came in after me and helped me take off my coat to hang it up. I gave him a weak nod of thanks, unable to muster much else.

The Yakuza were in London and they were trying to get at me to get at Miyako. However, their methods made no sense to me. If they knew who I was, why not just try to come get me? Sure, they'd have Sherlock and John to contend with, but not if they waited for me to be out on my own picking up Chinese or shopping. So why? Why murder three people just to get my attention?

"Date go well?" John asked, finally looking up from his computer's screen.

When my brother saw the expression on my face, his grew angry. He closed his laptop and got to his feet, fixating Sherlock in a heated glare.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

"John," I murmured softly. "Don't. It's not about Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed as he took off his own coat. "Seen the telly?"

"No? Should I have?" John said.

"You probably would have seen it on the news," Sherlock explained, hanging up his coat next to mine. "A girl was murdered at 29 Hanbury Street."

John's brow furrowed. "Why does that sound familiar?"

Sherlock gently took my arm and guided me over to his chair and had me sit down. I wordlessly allowed this, too focused on dissecting these murders and why they were connected to me.

"Jack the Ripper," Sherlock said, eyeing me one last time before turning to face my brother. "That's where his second victim was found."

"Oh," John said, his face falling. "Oh, no, do we have a copy cat killer over one century later?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock replied.

I barely listened as Sherlock explained how our date involved working on another case which connected to the girl's death and the second body we found afterward. John's voice grew tight, then loud when he realized I was the common denominator, but I couldn't hear his words. I stared at the fireplace, my mind spinning as it searched desperately for an answer.

"Maxine!" John finally shouted.

I blinked and looked over at my brother. He seemed out of breath and there was color on his face and rising up from his chest; I could see the red on his neck. I didn't think I'd ever seen him look so stressed—at least not since the bomb incident with Moriarty.

"There are members from the largest criminal organization here in London that are clearly after you," John said. "We have to get you somewhere safe. They'll know to look here."

"Hang on..." I said, a thought clicking into place in my head. "What if they don't?"

Sherlock and John both looked at me in confusion.

"What d'you mean?" John asked.

"They're purposefully setting up these murders so that whoever made MANA will realize they're connected to the manga—that they're meant to catch the author's attention. I use a pen name: Dakota Lyheart," I explained, my words coming out faster as it pieced together. "At the murder scene of the girl—Heather Peterson—there was a note left there for Sherlock. _Sherlock,_ not me. If these people knew that I was Lyheart, why not address the note to me if they're so intent on getting my attention?"

I got up from the chair and began to pace around the living room. Sherlock and John backed up out of my way as I went, staring at me with lingering confusion and growing interest.

"No, they want Sherlock on the case," I said. "Because they know Sherlock working it would gain the media's attention—that he would see the connection between the bodies—that he would discover that the manga was the common theme and he would find Lyheart. They want him to do their work for them."

I paused and turned to face the boys, letting out a small, disbelieving laugh.

"They have no idea that it's me," I breathed. "All they know is that Akage and Dakota Lyheart are one and the same, and she's in London. That's all they've got."

John gave a shaky laugh of relief and looked at Sherlock. "Is that right? D'you reckon that they just want you to lead them to Lyheart?"

Sherlock's expression was that of shock and pride. He smiled at me and snapped his fingers. "It makes sense," he said. "If they knew Max was Lyheart, why haven't they attempted to get at her here in the flat? Or when she's out on errands? _That's_ why they're killing people like this."

"So... so what do we do?" John queried. "We can't risk them finally putting two and two together. I've never mentioned Maddie's manga on my blogs, but I do talk about how she's an artist. And remember how Mycroft's friend at the Palace knew she wrote MANA? So, your brother and his friends know."

"Bold of you to assume Mycroft has friends. Regardless, I don't think they'll figure it out just from that," Sherlock said. He pursed his lips for a moment. "We need to find them before they find Max; it's simple as that. In the meantime, we need to keep Max in a safe place."

"Wait, what?" I exclaimed. "I just proved how they don't know it's me. I can help!"

"Yes, and say they see how well you fight or notice that John's first blog mentions you spent time in Japan," Sherlock retorted sharply. "Max, they're trying to lure you out in order to use you to get your old teacher. For all we know, they could smuggle you back to Japan if you got caught. Yakuza's dabbled in human trafficking more than enough to be efficient at it."

"I can't just do _nothing_ ," I argued. "This is my fault—I'm the reason they're here!"

"And we can't let you get hurt, or worse," John snapped. "Maxine, we all know you're capable, but these people are on a whole other level."

"Miyako was training me to _assassinate_ their members," I pointed out. " _High-ranking_ members. She told me I was even beyond the skills of those she sent before me."

"This is not up for debate," Sherlock said, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm calling Lestrade and taking you to the Scotland Yard. You'll stay with him until this whole matter is settled."

"You're putting me with a babysitter?" I said incredulously.

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly.

I loosed a long exhale. It was rare when Sherlock and John were both on the same page and a different one from mine. Them gaining up on me made me feel small and helpless. I wanted to help—I wanted to stop whoever came here and was killing people to gain my attention. However, with both my boyfriend and brother so strongly united in their opposition of that, I didn't stand much of a chance.

"Fine, fine," I sighed in defeat, waving him off. "Give the Inspector a ring. He's probably still at the Quinn flat anyway."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed before putting his phone to his ear.

As Sherlock walked a few paces away, John came to my side and peered into my face.

"What?" I demanded.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"What d'you think?" I sighed, shaking my head.

"It's not your fault, Maddie," John assured. "Sherlock and I will put a stop to it, I promise."

"I just feel like I should be helping," I murmured. "I should be facing off against whoever this is and—"

"No," John interjected. "No, you shouldn't. You're going to go to Scotland Yard with Lestrade and stay there until this is sorted."

I shook my head, knowing I wasn't going to convince him otherwise.

Lestrade looked rather confused when I walked into his office a half hour later, alone.

"Where's Sherlock and John?" he asked.

"Oh, they didn't tell you?" I sighed. "You're babysitting."

"What?" Lestrade blinked. "Sherlock told me he was bringing someone to me for protection—someone that this killer is targeting."

I nodded at him and held his gaze meaningfully. Lestrade's eyes widened.

"You?" he exclaimed. "B-but why _you_ , Maxine?"

"When I was in Japan, my Aikido teacher secretly trained me to be an assassin to attack high-ranking members of the Yakuza," I replied dryly and I plopped down in a chair. "I never actually did, though, because Miyako grew fond of me. Didn't figure this out until the day she told me to leave Japan. So now, someone knows her old student, Akage, and the manga artist Dakota Lyheart, are one and the same."

"The-the killings, they're like your story characters," Lestrade rasped. "God, how didn't I see it sooner?" He shook his head in disbelief. "How does someone like you end up mixed in with the Yakuza?"

"Good news is, they don't know Dakota Lyheart is Maxine Watson," I said rather than answer.

Lestrade slumped back in his chair, his expression a mix between astonishment and a sense of numbness. "Just when I think you can't get stranger," he murmured.

I perked a brow at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're dating _Sherlock Holmes,_ " Lestrade replied. "Anyone who can cause that man to express any sort of emotion, well... it's a downright miracle."

I snorted. "Well, the same could be said for me," I said.

"Yes, John's said as much." Lestrade got up from his chair. "Tea?"

"Please." I nodded.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

I walked briskly down the street with no true destination, John at my side. My mind was racing endlessly and it was difficult to dissect them into making sense. Yakuza in London and after the author of MANA, Dakota Lyheart—who was also Maxine. They didn't know the two were the same, _yet._ I had to intersect this killer before he made the connection and ideally before he found another victim.

Pulling out my mobile, I brought up a internet search engine and began to type swiftly. John watched me warily; I could sense the stress he carried—it was evident in his tensed shoulders and tight expression.

"What's the plan?" he asked.

"I'm looking for places in London that carry suits of armor," I explained, still typing away and scrolling through the results. "Museums, shops, known collectors... We need to keep an eye on all of them in hopes of seeing this killer attempting to steal one."

"Suits of armor?" John echoed.

"The fourth major character in the manga," I said. "She has a massive suit of armor as her familiar, according to Max. We think that they're going to use that in the next murder."

"I really should read Ma—" John began but I halted and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," I breathed in a soft voice. "When we're out in public, don't mention who the author really is. If they want us to lead them to Lyheart, they very well might be watching us."

"Right, of course..." John shook his head in exasperation. "This is a mess."

I started typing and walking again. "There's too many locations in London to watch at once... We may have to wait for his next victim to be found."

"What?" John exclaimed. "No, we can't do that. We're not going to let another innocent person get hurt—besides you said this killer is incredibly efficient. There wasn't much left at any of his crime scenes, why would the fourth be any different?"

I shook my head, pursing my lips. I wanted to jump to the quickest and more effective way to keep Max safe and clearly my concern for her was clouding my judgement. John was right; the fourth crime scene would probably be just as clean and staged as the previous ones. We didn't have time to wait for forensics on this, either.

"What about..." John trailed off for a moment and paused in his walking.

I stopped and looked back at him with a raised brow. John met my eyes; he seemed somewhat reluctant.

"What about Mycroft?" he suggested.

Appalled, I turned and kept walking. "Do you have no faith in me to figure this out?" I snapped.

John trotted after me. "It's not that! It's just, Mycroft has access to surveillance all across the city. He could keep an eye on all those locations for us, don't you think?"

"We can find another way. Getting him involved is only going to complicate things," I muttered.

"Complicate things? For who— _you?_ Sherlock, Ma—there are _lives_ on the line here." John snatched my arm and pulled me to a halt. "Just swallow your pride and call him."

I exhaled sharply and glared at my phone. "Why does it have to be Mycroft?" I spar sourly before going to my text messages and finding my brother's name.

* * *

Mycroft's office was as large and over-compensating as ever. I paced about in room while John sat in one of the chairs and Mycroft was seated behind the desk as if he sat in a throne.

"So, I do win the bet, then," he said when John finished explaining everything.

I shot Mycroft an irascible glare. "That's all you're getting out of this?"

"Bet? What bet?" John asked, looking between the brothers.

"That Max and I couldn't go out on a normal date—and yes, Mycroft, you were right, because Max and I aren't like the rest of the boring and dull people going about London," I barked. "But do you know who else is going about London? The Yakuza."

"Yes, it is troubling," Mycroft admitted. "We can't very well allow them to set in seeds for any sort of smuggling or drug trade, can we? It's a matter of national security. I will ensure surveillance is utilized at the locations you indicated and any more I might find that carry suits of armor."

"Thank you," John said earnestly.

Mycroft merely nodded at him. "However, I feel in the meantime your top priority should be discovering just what they want Maxine for—or rather, what they want her old mentor, Kaida Miyako, for."

"Don't you think I've been working on that ever since she initially told me?" Sherlock demanded. "There's nothing on a Kaida Miyako in Japan other than her owning a small building that she used as her Aikido dojo. It's been since sold and Miyako is in the wind. It's rather difficult to conduct a case when it's across the ocean."

"My, my, aren't you riled up," Mycroft sighed. "You're not normally this agitated about cases, little brother."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You know why. This is Max we're talking about. I don't care what you think, I happen to care for her and I'm not going to let anything happen to her."

I turned and began to storm out the room. John hastily got up to follow me.

"Thank you again," he said to Mycroft. "Call or text if you get anything on the surveillance."

"Of course," Mycroft replied just as I was walking through the doors of his office.

I didn't speak until we were outside. My brisk walk forced John to trot to keep up. Once on the sidewalk, he grabbed my arm to slow me down.

"I've got shorter legs, in case you've forgotten," he said irritably.

I compensated my stride to match his and placed my hands in a prayer position in front of my mouth.

"Why would the Yakuza go through such great lengths to get at Kaida Miyako?" I pondered aloud. "Obviously, it's not her real name, but all my searching hasn't provided me anything of worth. I already discerned when I was first told that they want Miyako alive—why else would they need Lyheart? They need leverage against Miyako—but what for? To get her to do something? To get her to give up something?"

"Maybe this Miyako has information," John suggested. "What do the Yakuza deal in, exactly?"

I scoffed softly. "A better question would be what _don't_ they deal in. Drugs, sex trafficking, human smuggling, arms-dealing, money laundering... Anything to make their clans more money. Miyako had the tip of her pinky cut off—a disciplinary tool the Yakuza use when a member does something worth significant punishment. Could be stealing from the clan, could be messing up a job, could be helping the people in the human trafficking..."

I was once again walking aimlessly. I didn't want to talk about this in a cab and speaking aloud helped me figure out my own thoughts. John listened intently, clearly still distraught about his sister.

"This means what they need from Miyako now must be incredibly important since she already used up her first chance. And having high-ranked members assassinated..." I shook my head and exhaled a long breath through my nose. "Any ordinary member would have just been killed. So what is it Miyako has...?"

"Location of a drug stash?" John said. "Maybe she stole something like that case we had with Sebastian Wilkes. Or perhaps she's so good at her job they want her back. _Or_ maybe she freed some people they were smugg—"

"Shut up!" I shouted. "I can't think with you spouting off all this nonsense."

"But aren't all of those plausible?" John demanded.

"It's something more," I insisted. "Something bizarre. They sent an assassin to collect Lyheart. Why? It isn't their style." I ran my hands through my hair. "It's too direct—too _personal._ They want to be _certain_ they can get what they want."

"Well, she has been sending assassins to kill members of the clans," John pointed out. "Perhaps it's their form of... poetic justice?"

I pursed my lips into a grimace. "No... no, that's not it. It's something more—something _obvious,_ but I can't see it." Abruptly I let out an angry shout and gestured threw my arms back to my sides. "Why can't I see it?!"


	38. A Hunt For an Artist, Part 3

_Maxine_

"I fold," Lestrade sighed, placing his hand of cards down on the desk.

I glanced between him and my own hand with a smirk slowly rising on my lips. "Well, suppose that's for the best," I said before placing my cards face up on the desk in front of me.

"Wh—but you had nothing!" Lestrade exclaimed, pointing at my hand of a two, five, seven, eight, and Jack while the river had two tens and a Queen.

"I believe it's called a bluff," I said as I scooped the candy bars we were betting with toward my side of the desk.

Lestrade scoffed irritably. "It's impossible to play with you—your face never changes! Never!"

"As I understand it, that's how the game is meant to be played," I replied as I opened the wrapper of a chocolate bar and bit into it.

Lestrade gave a heavy exhale and gathered up all the cards to shuffle. Before her could get far, there was a knock on the office door and Sergeant Donovan stepped inside.

"Inspector, there's someone—oh." She paused when she spotted me and frowned. "What's the freak's freak doing here?"

"Y'know, we _do_ have names," I told her dryly.

Donovan merely sneered at me.

"What is it, Sergeant?" Lestrade prompted.

Donovan turned her gaze to him. "There's a man here insisting to speak with you. He won't talk to anyone else—says it's urgent."

Lestrade bit his lip and glanced at me warily.

"I'll be fine, go on," I assured him.

Lestrade got to his feet and headed out of the office. Donovan hovered for a moment, looking me over with mild confusion.

"What's going on?" she asked. "You're never here without him."

"Sherlock?" I raised my brows at her. "You mean the man who helps stop murderers and does your job better than you, so you're quite bitter about it?"

Donovan set her jaw and glared at me. I snorted softly and shook my head.

"Just an interesting new case, Sergeant. Nothing to worry about," I told her.

"Really?" Donovan put her hands on her hips. "Because Inspector Lestrade seems like he's babysitting you."

The same term I had used when Sherlock told me to come here. I sighed and waved her off. "Don't you have work to do?"

Donovan clicked her tongue in frustration and left the office. The door remained open behind her and I spotted Lestrade approaching a tall blond man that looked like he was two seconds from completely breaking down. His face was tear-stained, his limbs trembling, and he carried a satchel across his torso. He was gripping it in front of him so hard that his knuckles were white.

"Hello, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Lestrade introduced. "I heard you were asking for me?"

The man nodded shakily. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered. "I need to report a missing person—my daughter."

Lestrade blinked. "And you couldn't do that with my Sergeant?" he asked.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," the man said in a tremulous voice. "I didn't know what to do—and as I understand it, you work with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't at his flat—and-and—"

"Calm down, come sit in my office," Lestrade said, beckoning for the man to follow. "What's your name?"

"Rivers, sir," the man replied as he followed Lestrade. "Luke Rivers."

"All right, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade said. "Let's figure out what's going on, shall we?"

They entered the office and I got to my feet. Luke stared at me in mild surprise and glanced at Lestrade quizzically.

"Ah, my colleague, Maxine Watson," Lestrade explained.

Luke's green eyes lit up. "Mr. Holmes' girlfriend, is it?"

I still wasn't entirely used to the title, oddly. I rubbed the back of my neck and nodded. "Can you explain what's going on?"

Luke sat down in one of the seats across Lestrade's desk with the satchel in his lap. I could tell there was something inside—something rather bulky.

"I came home from work, and Lily was gone," Luke explained. "M-my daughter, I mean. And-and in the living room on the coffee table was this."

He opened the flap of the satchel and pulled out the strange bulky item inside.

My heart skipped a beat.

It was an iron helmet fit for a suit of armor. In the face guard's hinge, there was a small piece of yellowed parchment folded up. Luke lifted the guard and pulled out the note. Lestrade was already putting on some gloves he got from in his desk.

"Sergeant!" he called toward the office door. "We need evidence bags! Large ones, please!"

Looking back at the helmet Luke placed on the table, the Inspector frowned in thought and a sense of grimness. I kept my eyes on Luke and the piece of paper in his shaking fingers.

"I-it says..." he muttered, unfolding the paper. "'Only when you produce a knight will you get your Lily back.'"

"Produce a knight?" Lestrade echoed. "That's all it says?"

Luke nodded stiffly.

"A challenge," I murmured. "Or some sort of clue? Regardless, it implies the girl is alive. Our killer is playing a game." I pursed my lips. "How're we meant to present this knight to him when he leaves no instructions?"

"Who's the knight, though?" Lestrade asked.

"I'd think Sherlock," I replied. "He's asked for him before."

"H-hang on!" Luke exclaimed. "You're calling this person a killer? How do you know? Is he going to... would he...?" The man trailed off, tears beginning to trail down his cheeks.

"We're going to do everything in our power to save your daughter, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade assured him. "However, you've the right to know that it seems the person who took her is a known killer that we have been tracking."

Luke gave off a weak sob. "Wh-what would a murderer want with my little Lily? She's only sixteen! She's still a student! She never hurt anyone; she's the sweetest thing you'd ever meet!"

"I'm sorry this is happening, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade said. "Would you be able to give us some more details? Your daughter's description? The details of the last time you saw her?"

At that point Donovan came in with the evidence bags. She handed them to Lestrade before striding quickly from the room. Evidently she didn't care for my company at the moment. Lestrade carefully bagged the helmet and the note. Luke was trembling in his chair, his eyes staring blankly ahead of himself with a glassy, horrified gleam to them. Lestrade sealed the bags and looked toward the man with a frown.

"Mr. Rivers?" he prompted.

Luke startled. "Yes?"

"I was asking for some more details," Lestrade said.

"Oh, yes, yes..." Luke replied tremulously. "What would you like to know first?"

"What does your daughter look like?" Lestrade asked.

"Uh... blonde hair, long and she keeps it... keeps it braided." Luke sniffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Green eyes, freckles. A-a mole on her neck just here." He pointed at his own neck just below his Adam's apple. "She-she's not much taller than you, miss." He nodded at me. "And around the same weight, I'd think. She was wearing her-her pink jacket; well it's light pink—like pastel."

Lestrade had taken out a notepad and was jotting things down. "Is the mother aware of her disappearance?" he said.

"Lily's mum passed two years back," Luke said. "I-I can't lose Lily too—I just... I..." He withered into a crying fit, covering his face with his hands and shaking.

Lestrade pursed his lips in a mixture of frustration and empathy. He got to his feet and began to leave the office.

"I'll get us some tea," he said over his shoulder. "Maxine, could you... er, try to calm him?"

Before I could object, Lestrade was out of sight. I warily looked over to the sobbing man. I was the last person to leave with someone in this state—even Sherlock was better an consoling people than I was. I cleared my throat awkwardly and shifted in my seat.

"We, uh... we'll find your daughter," I said, trying to sound reassuring.

This was going to be the longest few minutes of my life, waiting for Lestrade to return with the tea.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

My phone began to buzz in my pocket. John and I were still walking the streets waiting for a call from Mycroft or for another idea to pop into my head and lead us somewhere.

"Inspector," I greeted when I picked up the call.

"We have a very distraught father here claiming his daughter's been kidnapped," Lestrade said. "Seems the culprit left an old knight's helmet with a note."

"It's the fourth victim," I breathed, my heart beginning to race. "What has the man said? Does he have any idea where his daughter must be? What does the note say?"

"Slow down," Lestrade said. "The note is demanding he produce a 'knight' or he'll never see his daughter again. He's a bloody mess right now, I'm getting some tea to see if we can calm him."

"We'll head over right away," I said before hanging up.

"What's going on?" John queried.

"The father of the fourth victim is at the Scotland Yard," I explained as I walked toward the road to hail a cab. "We need to get there to question him. Hopefully we can find the girl before it's too late."

"I'll message Mycroft," John said, pulling out his mobile. "Best he knows someone already stole the suit of armor. Maybe he can review some footage and catch the killer on tape."

I grimaced. Mycroft only just put full surveillance on the locations earlier today; I was willing to wager our killer stole the armor some time ago. However, it would be best to check, just to be safe. I nodded at my friend and raised a hand to call a taxi over.

Once we were inside and headed back to Scotland Yard, my mobile chimed in my pocket. I pulled it free, expecting to see a text from Maxine, however the number was blocked. It merely said: UNKNOWN. I frowned and opened the message.

 _To think, the great Sherlock Holmes could be so quick to emotion. I really expected more from you._

I furrowed my brow. My number was listed on the website—had someone gotten a hold of it and was toying with me? Was it our killer? Was it _him?_

I quickly typed back a response: _Who is this?_

John glanced over at me with a quizzical expression. I shook my head at him, indicating I couldn't explain just then. All my thinking power was being focused on my phone. It trilled again as a new message came through.

 _It was the Yakuza who figured out Akage and Dakota Lyheart were one and the same. But their resources—astoundingly—only goes so far. They couldn't figure out who Lyheart was._

My heart stuttered in my chest. I knew then who I was talking to. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he was involved in this, yet all the same something clenched my intestines with horrific force at the realization.

Beside me, John could clearly sense my rising anxiety. He shifted in his seat and tapped my shoulder.

"Sherlock, what is it?" he pressed. "Who's texting you?"

I didn't bother responding to him. Instead, my thumbs typed hastily away on my mobile while my heart pounded harder and harder in my ears.

 _Enough of your childish games. Get to the point._

The reply came within less than a minute.

 _Oh, my dear Sherlock. It's always about the game, and I'm going to win this round._

"Faster," I said to the cabbie, the panic cracking my voice. "If you get us to the Scotland Yard as fast as you can, I'll pay triple the fair and ensure you don't pay any traffic tickets."

"What?" The cab driver looked back at me, clearly taken aback.

I slammed my hands against the back of his seat, jostling him. "Just drive, you idiot! This is an emergency!"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as the cabbie began to accelerate. "What the hell is going on?"

"It's Max," I rasped, quickly pulling up Maxine's contact information in my phone. "She's in danger."

* * *

 _Maxine_

"Do-do you think you can convince Mr. Holmes to take my case?" Luke blubbered. His face was red and he could hardly breathe through his nose.

"He'll need no convincing," I assured him. "Your daughter's disappearance is linked to the case we're working right now."

"Oh..." Luke shook his head. "Is... is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

I sighed and met his gaze. "Both."

He laughed weakly before it turned into a soft sob.

Abruptly, the entire room was thrown into pitch darkness. I blinked, startled, and looked outside the door to see the rest of the office was shrouded in black as well. Other officers were giving small exclamations of shock and annoyance.

"The power went out?" I murmured, getting to my feet.

My eyes were taking some time to adjust. I felt around to grip the back of my chair to get some sense of where I was. In my pocket, my phone began to vibrate. I pulled it out to see Sherlock was trying to call me. I frowned. Sherlock _never_ called; even with me, he only texted.

However, before the true sense of danger could fully fill me, a strong hand covered my mouth and nose with a cloth that smelled strongly of chemical. I gave an involuntary gasp of surprise, and that was all it took. My world hiccuped and swayed. I tried to thrash out of the man's grip, but he already locked an arm around my shoulders and was pressing me against his chest.

My phone fell to the floor, still buzzing when it went up against Lestrade's desk. It was the last thing I heard before everything melted away.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

I didn't wait for the cab to come to a complete stop when we reached the Scotland Yard. I heard the cabbie give some exclamation about the fair, but didn't bother turning back. I ran toward the entrance, my body thrumming with adrenaline. There were patrol cars scattered about with their lights flaring and several officers standing outside the building. When I didn't see Lestrade among them, I headed straight inside; none of them tried to stop me.

It was dark in the building; more officers were walking about inside with torches shining their way. I paused when I burst inside, quickly pulling out my own torch from my coat pocket. The power had gone out—been sabotaged, most likely. That wasn't good.

"Sherlock!" John had followed me inside. "Please tell me what's going—why's the power out?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice came and I turned to see the Inspector jogging toward us from his office.

"Max...?" I said, my voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper.

I shined my torch toward Lestrade's face but at an angle not to blind him. His expression fell into something both ashamed and angry. My breathing hitched and I took a shaky step back. John looked between Lestrade and me with rising horror tainting his stone-blue eyes.

All my rage and fear flooded through me at once. I let out a roar and turned to the closest desk I could find to shove everything off of it. Pencil holders, papers, a keyboard, and a cup of coffee was all sent flying to the floor. Still not satisfied, I gripped the desk and gave another bellow as I flipped it on its side.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cried.

It took everything in me not to punch him. I locked my irascible gaze onto him and shoved a finger into his chest.

"You were meant to keep her safe!" I shouted.

"We've barred off the building," Lestrade assured. "No-one is getting in or out that we don't know."

"Just hold on a second," John said, pushing himself between Lestrade and me. "What happened? Where's Maddie?"

Lestrade huffed and shook his head. "Look, I'm not proud of what happened. I've got a composite sketch to our forensic artist already."

"You—you _saw_ who took her?!" I exclaimed.

"Took?" John echoed. "What-what d'you mean, _'took?'_ " He looked back at Lestrade. "No... you can't be..."

"He tricked both of us," Lestrade pressed. "The man that came in claiming his daughter was taken? It was him."

"Unbelievable," I breathed, then my voice rose to a shout. "Unbe _lievable!_ You call yourself a man of the law—someone who protects and upholds peace—you should be terminated from your standing as Detective Inspector." I spat the last words with all the venom I could muster and glared at him.

"I just told you, he tricked _both_ of us! He might have even tricked you too!" Lestrade defended.

"Enough!" John yelled. "This is getting us nowhere. Lestrade, what did the man look like?"

"White male, crying and snotting up a storm; how were we meant to know he was with the Yakuza?" Lestrade shook his head helplessly.

"Because he isn't," I murmured, glaring down at the mess I'd made. "The Yakuza is working with a third party. And a fourth party too, I suppose."

"Tell me what's going on, Sherlock," John demanded.

I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair. "Moriarty. He connected the Yakuza with this-this _assassin_ or _mercenary—_ or whatever he considers himself."

"This is Moriarty?" Lestrade gasped. "Again?"

Before I could reply, the power suddenly kicked back in. Surprised, we looked around ourselves and turned off our torches. The mess I'd made looked far worse now that it was in full view. I realized that I didn't even care whose desk it was. My entire being was fixated on finding Maxine and keeping her safe.

The phone in Lestrade's office began to ring. The three of us exchanged a knowing look before hurrying to the room. I paused briefly in the doorway when I spotted Maxine's yellow scarf on the floor. Grinding my teeth, I snatching it before going to the desk and picking up the receiver with haste.

"Hello?" I said.

"Here's the deal..."

American accent, man, possibly around his mid-forties. Smoked in his teens, quit in his twenties. Confident, but wasn't always—he'd _earned_ this level of pride. I gripped the desk tightly as I waited for him to continue.

"I need your help, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I've been trying to wait it out, but I'm an impatient guy."

"What do you want?" I said, my voice tight with rising anger.

"It's simple," the man replied. "I need to find out who is attached to the pen name, Dakota Lyheart. Once you do that, I need you to bring her to me. In exchange, I'll give you back you're cute little freckled redhead in one piece and still breathing instead of skewered in a suit of armor in a very public place."

I could hear the grin in his voice. It infuriated me to no end. I wanted to find this man and crush his windpipe in my hands.

"You think that you can stop me, but you can't," the man murmured. "I killed that girl in broad daylight earlier today and no-one saw. Then the brothers... They were a bit easier. Not as fun as I normally like. But your girl? Oh, she deserves something _special."_

"How long?" I rasped.

Not that it really mattered; the person the man was demanding was already in his custody. I wasn't going to tell him that, of course, and I needed to see how long I'd have to come up with some sort of plan.

"I'll give you two days," the man said. "Should be plenty of time for someone like you. Call me at this number when you have her ready to trade."

I stared blankly at the far wall as the line went dead and the dial tone blared in my ear. John and Lestrade both leaned toward me quizzically, their brows furrowed. Slowly, I lowered the receiver and hung it up.

"He doesn't know," I breathed.

"What? Who was that?" John demanded.

"The killer—the man that took Max," I explained, turning to face the other two men. "He doesn't know that she's Dakota Lyheart. He's demanding that we find who the pen-name is attached to and exchange her for Max."

John groaned and took a few steps back, running his hands through his hair.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.

"What are we meant to do?" John exclaimed. "We can't give him Lyheart and we can't tell him Maddie is the same person!"

I closed my eyes, letting my mind reach out and grasp at the countless possibilities I could conjure. "Can't tell him the truth, can't produce someone for the trade," I murmured.

"I could say I'm Lyheart," John suddenly said.

I shook my head and stared at the yellow scarf in my hand. "He knows Akage is a female," I said. "Which... is strange."

"How so?" Lestrade asked.

I began to pace around the office. "Akage translates directly to 'redhead.' How the killer doesn't realize that he already has his mark is astounding."

"There are a lot of redheads in London," John argued.

"Certainly, but you've documented Max's combat ability in your blog," I pointed out. "At least to some degree. It shouldn't be a difficult leap for anyone to make the connection."

"Well, he did ask for Lyheart, not Akage," Lestrade said.

I opened my mouth to snap at the Inspector, but when his words reached me, I blinked. "You're right," I breathed. "He didn't ask for Akage..."

I pressed my hands together in a prayer position and put my lips to my index fingers, letting my mind swiftly dive through all the information I had and connect various things together.

The texts from Moriarty were teasing—he stated this was a game. He stated that the Yakuza knew Akage and Lyheart were the same and he helped them figure out the rest—but he never stated he _already_ told them. It was incredibly possible that the killer—an outside source Moriarty enlisted to help the Yakuza—had no idea about the third name his target held.

"He's doing this all for kicks," I snarled suddenly. "The killer's never even heard the word Akage. All he was tasked with was finding Lyheart and brining her to Japan. The killer isn't even Japanese... of course. A mercenary—an assassin—some sort of freelancer... he's just doing this for Moriarty—for money."

My phone trilled in my pocket. I pulled it out quickly and saw that the unknown number had texted me again.

It said: _Your move ;)_

* * *

 _Maxine_

It was dark. I blinked my eyes several times to try and rid them of drowsiness and clear my vision, but to no avail. My head was pounding and my limbs were lead. I groaned and sat up, trying to understand my surroundings. I was on a bed of some kind and there were sheets around me. My clothes were still on—thank goodness—save my scarf.

Abruptly, light flooded the room. I gasped and shut my eyes tightly from the discomfort of my irises contracting. I blinked them open again as I heard footsteps approaching me.

"Sleeping beauty awakes," said a man in an American accent.

I looked around to see that I seemed to be in some sort of warehouse crate—the bigs ones seen being placed on boats to go overseas. The man I knew as Luke Rivers—though, he was no longer blond, his eyes were now green, and his nose was smaller—was striding in from the metal doors he'd opened. There was a pistol in his hand, though he didn't aim it at me. I was on a small bed toward the back of the crate, and there was no way I would close the distance between us before he shot me.

Not to mention, my dagger was no longer in my boot.

"Clever," I rasped, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. "Playing the part of the distraught father... it was very convincing."

"Thank you," the man said. "I do enjoy the acting part of the job. Adds variety."

"Who are you?" I asked. "You're with the Yakuza?"

The man chuckled and leaned on the wall. "Oh, no, sweetheart. I'm a bit too _extreme_ for their tastes. But, they are quite desperate to find this Dakota Lyheart person—willing to pay a _very_ pretty penny."

I narrowed my eyes. The way he spoke suggested he didn't know who I was. I decided to keep my mouth shut about that for now. Instead, I pressed, "But who _are_ you?"

"Well, the public has given me many, _many_ names, but in my network, most just refer to me as Wolfgang," the man replied. "So that should suffice, if you must call me something."

He'd changed clothes since I last saw him. He wore a form-fitting, long-sleeve shirt and brown cargo pants. His hair was just past the tops of his ears and a slightly reddish brown. He must have been wearing a wig at Scotland Yard along with the prosthetic nose and colored contacts, and he'd worn baggy clothes to hide his physical physic. He even looked shorter, which implied he might have worn shoes with thicker soles. There were black leather gloves on his hands and the casual smile on his face sent shivers down my spine.

Clearly, Wolfgang knew what he was doing.

"So you're... what, a mercenary? A hitman?" I asked. I wanted to glean as much information as I can while still wracking my brain for a way to escape.

Wolfgang snorted. " _Mercenary,_ " he echoed with distaste. "No. No, no, no... I like to think of myself as a jack-of-all-trades. Someone needs someone dead? Done. Someone needs to fake their death? Done. Someone needs a pair of eyes behind enemy lines? Done."

He slowly shrugged off the fall and began to walk toward me. His eyes were a dark green and his brows were arched in such a way that it gave his overall features an intimidating intensity. Oddly, in the back of my mind I found that I wanted to draw him.

"Someone needs the real identity of someone?" he went on in a low voice. "Done. Someone needs that someone carted off to another country?" Wolfgang paused about five feet away—still too far for me to lunge. "Done."

"All right, but... the murders... asking for Sherlock..." I said, finding a rising discomfort at his closeness.

Wolfgang chuckled. "Well, I have my strengths and I have my weaknesses," he sighed. "Detective work has never been my favorite. But, see, the guy that hired me... he put in a little something extra just for me to mess with that boyfriend of yours. I saw it as a two for one. I kill these people in reference to Lyheart's little comics..."

"Manga..." I corrected under my breath.

"What?" Wolfgang perked a brow.

"They're not comics," I muttered. "They're manga."

Wolfgang scoffed. "Whatever they are. Doesn't matter. What matters was killing them in such a way that good ol' Sherlock realized they were all connected to the same thing. He'd want to figure out why—he'd find Lyheart for me."

Finally, Wolfgang backed up toward the doors again. I loosed a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Normally, danger thrilled me. But this? Trapped without any means of defending myself? I wanted nothing to do with this.

Wolfgang smiled at me as he leaned on the wall again. "Didn't realize you figured out it was connected to that _manga_ yet," he said. "If I'd known that, maybe you wouldn't be here right now."

I blinked at him. More and more, I was convinced he didn't know who I really was. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad luck for me.

"What d'you mean?" I asked.

"Well, I got impatient," Wolfgang admitted in an irritable sigh. "I wanted Sherlock to see that the murders were all connected and what they were connected with. I figured making his girl my fourth victim would... inspire him."

"That's what this is," I breathed.

Wolfgang peered at me. "What did you think it was? I have _some_ class. I don't kill senselessly. There's a code I follow."

"You might have just been a crazy fan of that manga," I pointed out.

Wolfgang laughed and shook his head. He put his hands on the wood slab and leaned down toward me. "You're pretty calm for a girl in your situation."

"Living with Sherlock, I've gotten to be close friends with danger," I told him. "Dating him only made it closer."

Wolfgang snorted in amusement. "I like you, Maxine. Sure hope I don't end up having to kill you."

He turned and began to walk away.

"Wait!" I called.

Wolfgang paused and looked back with a perked brow.

"Who hired you?" I asked. "Why do they want this Lyheart person so much?"

Wolfgang scoffed softly and shrugged. "I don't ask the big questions, sweetheart. I just ask 'how much?'"

With that, Wolfgang strode out of the large shipping crate and closed the doors behind him. The light stayed on—it was coming from a lamp in the far corner. I exhaled sharply and glanced up to see a camera peering down at me. If I managed to make any process in escaping, I was willing to bet Wolfgang would see it—or someone would. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an accomplice; after all, who took out the power back at the station?

There was a single white blanket on the bed, a bucket in the corner I guessed was for me to relieve myself in, the lamp, and the camera near the door—that was it. Not much to use without a lot of modification that would probably be caught on camera.

I let out a long breath and hoped Sherlock had some sort of plan, because my mind was completely blank on this one.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

Keeping a level head was next to impossible. John was on the phone with Mycroft, trying to see if the video footage had given him anything. We were back at the flat and I was staring at the composite sketch that Lestrade had done up, memorizing the features. Maxine's scarf was laid over the back of my chair and every so often I went over to rub my fingers on its soft fabric.

Trying to see if the number on Lestrade's phone carried GPS or any sort of traceable location had proved fruitless, even for Mycroft. After a thorough combover Lestrade's office, I'd found a blond hair that was consistent with artificial hair. I would have to test it at the lab to make sure, but I was fairly certain the man that took Maxine had been wearing a wig.

The helmet Lestrade had bagged as evidence provided no leads either. The fingerprints had no match in any database and there was no real way to track where the thing came from. All that could be gleaned was that it was an authentic piece—it came from the medieval era, perhaps late 15th century. Even when I recalled all the other crime scenes and examined the evidence from them, they gave me nothing. It was like chasing a ghost.

"Not in the building, but possibly not far," I murmured to myself. "No background noise when he called—wasn't driving. Or wasn't moving. Could have been intentional, could already be at destination. Voice sounds young or middle-aged. Tone suggests high confidence. Arrogance could lead to a slip up. Skilled actor, possible wig hair, could have been using prosthetics."

I scowled at the sketch. It could potentially be useless.

"Hey." John came walking toward me from the kitchen. "Mycroft says he got the copies of the sketch but it could be that—"

"That it could be useless, yes, I know," I interjected. "What else?"

John sighed. "Cameras don't seem to have caught anyone stealing anything, but his people are still going through them. And the car that left the scene of Scotland Yard had no plates and no-one's seen it since. Blue sedan of some kind. Oh, and he's having the sketch cross referenced with known contract killers."

I could see the tension in John's shoulders and the anxiety in his eyes. I furrowed my brow at him.

"How d'you do that?" I whispered.

"Do what?" John asked.

"You're so calm—so level," I replied. "Max is missing, but you're able to keep it together."

"Well, one of us has to, right?" John said.

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

John eyed me critically. "Sherlock, you upended Donovan's desk and probably destroyed her computer."

"It was Donovan's desk?" I clicked my tongue with slight satisfaction. "Oh, good. At least it wasn't anyone useful."

"I've never seen you this... this..." John waved his hands in an effort to find a word.

"Emotional?" I supplied. "Moriarty said the same thing." I pursed my lips into a tight line.

"It's not necessarily a bad thing," John pointed out. "I mean... I'll admit, I sort of had some doubts..."

"Doubts?" I taped the composite sketch on the mirror over the fireplace.

"About you with my sister," John explained.

I turned to face him, slightly indignant. "Why?"

"Because, Sherlock, you're _you,_ and she's _her._ " John shook his head. "Neither of you seem... _capable_ of this sort of thing. But seeing you today... You love her, don't you?"

I swiftly adverted my gaze. "If the sketch might be useless and there's nothing on the surveillance footage yet, we should see if anyone had reported a suit missing. That will narrow it down for Mycroft."

John exhaled at my change of subject, but before he could say anything, I pressed on with a new thought.

"We need something to trade," I murmured. "He has what he wants, but doesn't realize it, so it's impossible for us to supply... We need something of _his_ for something of _ours._ Something he cherishes, something he couldn't stand losing."

"The man's a psychopath," John said. "What in the world could he care for enough to give us Maddie?"

I pressed my fingers against my temples and loosed a long exhale through my lips. What did this man care about? Perhaps he was in it for the thrills, perhaps he just enjoyed this. No... no, there had to be something more to it. Moriarty had been the bridge between this man and the Yakuza.

My phone began to ring in my pocket. When I took it out and saw Mycroft's name, I answered so hastily I nearly dropped it.

"What do you have?" I demanded.

"A possible ID," Mycroft replied. To his credit, he didn't sound as smug or pompous as he normally did. I didn't know if it was for my benefit or Maxine's. "Seems that our man only changed his hair for his trip to Scotland Yard. We have some photos of a man that's known to... well, he isn't exactly a contract killer. He's a contract _anything._ "

"Name," I insisted.

"We don't have his birth name," Mycroft said. "He's never been brought in. But in his crowds, he goes by Wolfgang. Apparently he doesn't get out of bed for less than three million quid. Not much is known about him other than the fact that he is very good at what he does."

I was quiet for a moment, processing the information.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft said softly.

"What?" I replied, still thinking about this Wolfgang and how I was going to destroy him.

"You do realize that this could go wrong," Mycroft said. "You're emotional—too quick to action. This man is dangerous and unpredictable."

"Let me know if you find out more," was all I replied with and ended the call.

I immediately began to scroll through my contacts and John perked a brow at me.

"What did he have to say?" John pressed.

"Our man goes by Wolfgang," I explained as I began typing a message. "And I know what he cares about enough to trade for."

"What's that?" John asked eagerly.

I sent the message and then went to another contact to type another text out. John waited for me to answer him, but I was too intent on the message I was typing out.

"Sherlock," he said irritably.

I looked up, but before I could reply, there was intense knocking from the door below.

Startled, John and I exchanged a look before both heading out to the landing and down the stairs. John had his hand near his hip where his pistol was and I felt my own body tense for a potential fight. However, when I opened the door, instead of leaping into battle, my jaw went slack and my eyes stretched.

Standing before us was a short Japanese woman with long, braided black hair and a muscular build. She was wearing an athletic, form fitting black shirt with a hood and equally dark leggings. The boots she wore seemed for both climbing and running. She had to be in her forties, though her dark eyes were large and youthful. She stared up at us with a grim expression.

"Am I too late?" she asked in a light accent.

"Who are—?" John began, but I interrupted with the answer.

"Kaida Miyako," I murmured.

Miyako blinked, though her surprise didn't linger long. "Sherlock Holmes. The one who told Max she could no longer communicate with me."

 _Max._ I'd never heard anyone else refer to Maxine as that besides myself. Oddly, it sent a strange irritation through my body.

"Y-you're Maddie's teacher," John breathed. "The one who got her into this mess!"

"Please, you can yell at me later," Miyako said. "May I come in? It would be best we don't speak of a plan out in the open."

A few minutes later, we were up in the living room and John was bringing over some brewed green tea from the kitchen. I sat in my usual chair while Miyako took John's. When she spotted Maxine's scarf, she blinked.

"She never goes anywhere without that," Miyako breathed.

"Why are you here?" I asked the woman tightly, ignoring her comment.

Miyako exhaled slowly through her nose. She bowed her head to John in thanks when he set the tray on the coffee table and went to pour herself a cup. Only after she took a sip did she respond.

"I learned of the plan to send an outsider to collect Akage," Miyako said. "They had figured out the connection between her and the manga artist Dakota Lyheart, but they could not find the author's real name."

"So, what, you came to warn her?" John asked as he perched on the edge of the coffee table.

"I came to protect her," Miyako insisted. "If they figured out who she was, I intended to offer myself instead."

"That wouldn't work," I said as I poured myself a cup of tea.

"What do you mean?" Miyako asked.

We'd already filled her in about how Maxine was kidnapped, but not the details.

"The man that has Max doesn't know she's Lyheart," I explained. "He also has no idea about Akage or the physical description of her. There's someone else plucking the strings here."

"What? How could that be?" Miyako demanded.

"His name is Moriarty; James Moriarty," I replied. "I suppose you could call him my rival. We've crossed paths before."

"He's a lunatic," John said. "Intelligent, critical, and completely psychotic. This whole thing is a game to him. He hired this man and only told him to find out who Dakota Lyheart was, that she was female, and to deliver them to the Yakuza."

"I'm guessing there's some sort of location nearby that he would deliver her to, once he had her," I murmured. "Human trafficking drop off."

"I still don't understand," Miyako pressed. "Why take Max if he doesn't know who she is?"

"Because Moriarty told this man to use me to find out who Lyheart is," I snapped. "And Max... Max is my girlfriend."

Miyako's brows shot up beneath her bangs. "Wait; you and Max... together?"

"Shocking, I know," John said.

"No, actually," Miyako replied. "It... it makes a lot of sense. Max loves challenges, and I would assume Mr. Holmes is a great challenge."

John snorted in amusement and I huffed before drinking some of my tea.

"So—this Moriarty—he's playing games with you?" Miyako asked me.

I nodded while drinking.

"Do you know the man that took her?" John asked. "Wolfgang?"

"Wolfgang? Yes, unfortunately, I do..." Miyako said. "He works for no less than five million pounds per job—or dollars. He's American. Does anything illegal you can think of, but his favorite is killing."

"We've seen his handy work," I muttered, looking at the sketch with narrowing eyes. "Do you know his real identity?"

"I'm not certain anyone does," Miyako said. "Sorry... Has he given you demands?"

"He wants Lyheart," John said. "He wants Sherlock to figure out who she is and trade her for Max, or..."

"Or...?" Miyako prompted.

"Or he'll kill her inside a suit of armor and leave her out in a public place for Sherlock to find her," John said in a low voice, his jaw clenched.

"I am very sorry," Miyako said. "You are her brother, this must be very hard for you. For both of you." She got to her feet and walked toward the sketch on the mirror. "I understand my part in this, and I will help you get her back."

"How?" I demanded. "So far, we've no leads. That sketch could very well be useless—he was wearing a wig; who knows if he had prosthetics or make-up on?"

Miyako kept staring silently at the sketch and it dawned on me what she meant. I set my cup down and got to my feet as well.

"You mean to present _yourself_ as Lyheart," I said.

"What?" John exclaimed.

"It would make sense, don't you think?" Miyako replied, finally turning to face us. "A Japanese woman is the author of a famous manga that was published in Japanese before English."

I pressed my hands together in the prayer position near my mouth. My mind was racing with new possibilities. I stepped back into the living room's open space and began to pace.

"Calling him this soon would be suspicious, we'll have to wait," I said, mostly to myself. "We can do some more work in the meantime. Search for stolen reports of a suit of armor, check the security footage, work out a step-by-step plan for the exchange... Have to figure out a way to get Miyako back; Max won't stand for abandoning her. A tracker, perhaps? Something in her clothes—somewhere he won't look..."

"Water-proof tracker," Miyako said. "For beneath my tongue."

"Do they make those?" John asked.

Miyako pulled something out of her pocket—a small round chip no no larger than a five pence. "They do," she replied.

For the first time since I figured out Maxine was the target of this case, I felt hope. Relief flooded me and I smiled lightly.

"This might work," I muttered. "This could very well work. But..." I turned to face Miyako, "there's still something bothering me."

"Yes?" Miyako raised a brow at me.

"Why do they want you?" I asked. "Why _alive?_ You've sent _assassins_ that you trained to kill high-ranking members of their clan. Yet, when you were found out, you told Max to leave the country because you thought they would use her against you. At first, I thought that perhaps it would be to lure you out so they could kill you, but Max mentioned that you told her that they sent you a warning—a warning to cease the assassination attempts or they would resort to targeting Akage."

Miyako glanced away. "It's complicated," she said. "There's no point in getting into it now."

"There's _every_ point in getting into it now," I pressed. "I need to know all the details of this situation for Max's sake. I need to be able to make decisions based on the data available to me and surprises in the middle of carrying out crucial actions could result in horrific failure. So, please, enlighten me what I'm missing."

"When I left, it was during a rather large drug exchange," Miyako admitted. "I had the drugs and the money hidden away after I dispatched of all involved. They want the location."

"Knew it," John said, puffing out his chest.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. "No. No, there's something more," I murmured. "Something that is keeping them from wanting to kill you. If they only wanted the location of the drugs and the money, they could capture and torture it out of you."

"They knew I wouldn't break," Miyako replied a little too quickly. "That's why they wanted Akage—to use her to break me."

I sucked my teeth and pursed my lips. "It's still doesn't complete the picture," I said. "They don't try very hard to try and track you down. How else would you be able to run a dojo in Tokyo for so many years? It's almost as if they fear finding you and possibly end up hurting you. I know you must be prowess in combat given Max's abilities, but the Yakuza have never had an issue just sending large numbers to get at someone. Even you couldn't fight off ten of them.

"So that leads us with the question: why be so careful with you? Why, even after the assassinations, is there leniency and the drive to use Akage as the motivation instead of your own pain or life? There's only one thing I can think of. Someone in the clan—someone high in the rankings, cares for you. They care so much that they'd rather use a stranger to make you compliant than hurt or kill you. They want you close to them—they want to use Akage as blackmail."

I peered at Miyako while stepping closer to her. She looked incredibly uncomfortable by my words and my sharp gaze. She cleared her throat awkwardly and bit her lip.

"I suppose your reputation proceeds you," she whispered.

"It's annoying sometimes," John sighed.

I shot him a glare but Miyako gained back my attention when she spoke again.

"My real name is Sakura Hikura. My father... Yoshio Hikura... he leads the clan," Miyako said. "He gained the promotion four years ago. I defected two years before that, but he still had enough influence to keep the others from coming after me. Since then, he's tried to get me to come back. He has these fantasies of being a whole family again, but that can't happen. Not after all the death and carnage they've caused."

"You told Max that you were taken in at a young age, off the streets," I reminded her.

"I lied." Miyako shrugged. "I don't like talking to others about my heritage. I was determined to bring the clan down before my father was the leader, and I still am today; even if that means taking his life too."

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn," he breathed. "And I thought my family troubles were bad."

Miyako sighed softly. "I never meant for it to come this far. I never expected him to try so desperately to get me back. I thought for certain sending assassins would have been the last straw—that he would want me dead."

"Was that your end goal?" John asked. "To have you father try to kill you?"

"No, no..." Miyako shook her head. "I was never meant to be caught. I'd even made certain that no-one was close to me, should that day come. But Max... she was different. Somehow, she snuck right by my defenses and before I knew it, I cared about her."

I understood Miyako's words all too well. Max had done the same thing to me. John had as well, though not to the degree of his sister. I'd never meant to have _friends—_ to have people close that my enemies could use against me.

"When Aoi betrayed me, my father sent me a message—to return and he would leave Akage alone," Miyako went on. "I'd been caught and I had someone he could use against me. After Akage was safe, I tried even harder to gain my father's ire. I wanted him to forget about using someone to make me come back and simply focus on killing me. Seems he cares for me more than I ever gave him credit for."

"Or he knows that killing you would be kinder than forcing you to return to the clan," I pointed out. "You striking out against him like this has only motivated him to hit you where it hurts: your dear friend and you back in the Yakuza."

Miyako scoffed. "You give him too much credit. He isn't that clever."

"Perhaps not, but Moriarty is," I said. "It could be he's been whispering in your father's ear for some time. It would kill two birds with one stone for him—get paid a large sum for an illegal job and mess with me." I pressed my lips into a tight line.

"We will get Max back," Miyako assured me. "I won't let her pay for my mistakes, I promise."

I met her eyes for a moment before striding across the room toward my violin. It was sitting on the couch and as I lifted the bow Maxine had gifted me, my heart grew heavier. I blinked rapidly for a moment, attempting to make my eyes stop burning, then I put the bow to the strings and played.


	39. A Hunt For an Artist, Part 4

_Maxine_

I sat on the cot for some time, formulating a plan. There was a camera, Wolfgang had a gun, and I didn't have any sort of weapon. He needed me alive, but he could certainly hit me in a non-lethal area. That would not only hurt, but halt any attempt I make at escape; I'd be too slow.

So what was I meant to do?

Slowly, a plot formed in my head. I stood up from the bed and examined the sheet. With my back to the camera, I picked it up and gave the edge a strong tug with both hands. It tore at my pull; seemed they were cheap sheets. I loosed a long breath and ran my head through the process.

It wasn't the best idea, but it was the only one I had.

With determination, I turned and strode across the crate to where the camera was in the corner. I brought the sheet with me and wrapped my fist in it as I went. When I reached the camera, I jumped up and swung with my padded fist as hard as I could. The device didn't fall, but it was twisted on it's hinges, now aiming uselessly up at the ceiling.

I Jumped up and hit it one more time and this time it fell to the ground. I quickly gathered it and put it at my feet before tearing a long strip of the sheet free. I tore one more strip off and twined them together as fast as I could. With his camera feed cut, it was only a matter of time before Wolfgang came to inspect.

Once I had a slightly affective sheet rope, I took the camera and slammed it into the corner of the right-side door. I was hoping to jam it so only one door could be opened. After a few tries, it stuck where I pushed it.

The large metal doors clanked and began to creak open. I had taken a gamble on which side he would open first and it paid off. Since the doors opened outward, it had me at a disadvantage. He could open the doors wide and aim his gun inside. I wanted to force him into a closer confrontation. If he had tried the right door first and felt it jammed, he might be prepared for me.

The second Wolfgang stepped inside, I leapt. The man gasped when I wrapped the sheet rope around his neck and wrapped my legs around his middle. Using all my strength and body weight, I strangled Wolfgang. He choked and dropped his gun to grab at the cloth constricting him. When he couldn't loosen it, he reached back and tried to paw for my face.

I leaned back and pulled the rope tighter. Wolfgang staggered about the crate, forcing me to carefully keep my balance. Then, he reached into his pocket with a decent level of difficulty. I twisted around to see what he pulled free, but before I could register it, a pain pinched into my thigh.

Wolfgang had pulled a syringe out and injected its clear contents into my leg. My eyes widened as he tossed the needle across the room and went back to gripping at the cloth rope. At first, I wasn't sure what he'd given me. I continued to throttle him and he kept trying to toss me off with weakening attempts.

However, mere seconds after the injection, I noticed my limbs numbing and darkness hugging my vision. I gasped as my body began to lose more and more strength. Soon, I couldn't keep my grip on Wolfgang—not around his neck or his torso. I fell from him, landing heavily on my back.

Wolfgang coughed harshly as he staggered away from me. He gripped his throat and his eyes were watering. I tried to get up and reach for the gun that was a few feet away from me, but I was too weak to even lift my head. Wolfgang gained back some of his composure and looked back at me as I lingered on the brink of awareness.

"That was a good try," he rasped, his voice rough from having his windpipe crushed. "But not good enough."

My world went black.

* * *

 _John_

I wasn't all right.

Sherlock insisted we wait to contact Wolfgang to tell him we found Lyheart; he didn't want the killer to be suspicious. It was early morning the day after Maxine was taken, and I hadn't slept at all—none of us in 221B had. Mrs. Hudson had come up at one point with tea and snacks. She seemed just as distraught as we were about my sister's capture.

Mycroft had called earlier and stated that they finally had reports in of a stolen suit of armor from a collector in Wales. It had occurred nearly three weeks ago, and there was no footage of the incident. Whoever Wolfgang was, he knew what he was doing.

Sherlock had played his violin for several hours last night. It was slow, lamenting music that pulled at my heart. I'd had my doubts about Sherlock being with my sister, but it was clear to me that he cared deeply for her—that he loved her. He'd looked away when I accused him of that and changed the subject, but he hadn't denied it either. Perhaps even Sherlock was getting used to this new side of himself.

I was filled with a mixture of sheer panic, rage, and terror. My little sister was in the hands of some maniac and there wasn't anything I could do. I was trapped—I was useless. I wanted to get my hands on Wolfgang and tear at him until there was nothing left. I wanted to find Moriarty and shove his smug face right up his own arse.

So when Sherlock finally set down his violin and began to put on his coat, I lit up and jumped to my feet.

"Are we...?" I rasped.

Sherlock nodded as he tugged on his scarf. "It's time," he said.

I started to go for my coat, but before I did, I went to Sherlock's chair and grabbed Maxine's scarf. It wasn't really my color, but I wrapped it around my neck all the same.

"I think she'd like to have it when we get her," I told Sherlock.

"She would," Miyako agreed. She had changed into some of Maxine's clothes—a plaid button up flannel shirt and some jeans. She pulled on her own black coat and pursed her lips worriedly.

Sherlock hadn't been able to look at Miyako for long since she arrived. I could understand his anger toward the woman since she was the reason Maxine was caught up in all this. Yet at the same time, Miyako had been Maxine's first true friend. There had to be something special about her, something that had gotten Maxine out of her layered, armored shell.

"Thank you for letting me use these," Miyako said to me, gesturing to her clothes.

"Well, showing up in all black clothing like that might have set off some alarm bells in this guy's head," I replied.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed out a number before putting it on speaker. It rang a few times before someone picked up.

"I was starting to worry," a man's voice said snidely. I hadn't heard him before and instantly decided I hated the way he came across—arrogant and narcissistic all at once. He also sounded a bit rough, like he smoked or had a cold. "Do you have something for me, Mr. Holmes?"

"I found Dakota Lyheart," Sherlock replied, his voice tight. "Give me a location to make the trade."

Wolfgang rattled off an address that I wrote down. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, clearly already knowing where it was.

"The old warehouse in Whitechapel?" he said. "That's why all the murders were over there."

"I like to work close to home," Wolfgang said. "Well, wherever home is at the time."

"I want to hear Max," Sherlock demanded. "Prove to me she hasn't been harmed."

"She hasn't, I assure you," Wolfgang replied. "I might do a lot of acting to get my job done, but when I'm Wolfgang, I'm a man of my word."

"Put her on the line," Sherlock snarled.

"Never expected you to be so sentimental," Wolfgang sighed. "Fine..."

In the background, there was a sound of a metal door opening. Sherlock and I exchanged a meaningful look. We'd have to keep an eye out for something that could make that noise when we got to the warehouse.

"Sorry to bother you," Wolfgang said. "But your boy-toy would not take no for an answer. Go ahead and say hello to him, won't ya?"

There was a pause, then Maxine's voice came over the line.

"Sherlock?"

At the sound of my sister's voice, a wave of relief washed through me. However, it was rather short lived. She sounded tired—slurred, like she was drugged.

"Max," Sherlock breathed, his expression flooding with relief. "Are you all right? Has he hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Maxine assured. "Sherlock, you need—"

"Ah, that's quite enough," Wolfgang interjected. "Sorry, sweetheart, can't risk you two trying to pull wool over my eyes. I'll be back in a bit."

Once again, the sound of metal doors came. They creaked and then gave a resounding _thud_. After a moment, Wolfgang sighed and I was given the impression he was sitting down heavily from the way his breath left his mouth.

"There you have it, your little freckled treasure is safe and sound," he said. "And being treated to my fine cooking, I might add. Now... you bring Lyheart over here and we'll have ourselves a trade. The side door on the west end of the building will be unlocked; I suggest you enter there. Call before you come in, if you would. I'll be waiting—but don't make me wait long, Sherlock."

There was a short pause, in which Wolfgang bit into something that sounded like an apple. Once he swallowed, he let out a small chuckle.

"Oh, and if I see or get wind of a _single_ police officer or anyone else from the Scotland Yard nearby, Maxine will find herself skewered with this lovely longsword I found. Don't try to trick me, Sherlock. I have eyes and ears in places you'd least expect."

The line went dead.

I ran my hands through my hair. It had been relieving to hear Maxine's voice. She sounded tired, but still strong. Wolfgang must have taken her dagger from her and had other means of keeping her under control, otherwise she would have fought her way out of this.

Sherlock took his mobile from his ear and glared at the screen before gripping it with both hands and typing something in. Miyako adjusted her coat and grimaced.

"To make it realistic, you will most likely have to bind me," she said. "Like a kidnapping."

I rubbed my brow. "To think, if Maddie _wasn't_ who he was looking for..."

I cast Sherlock a glance, wondering if he would still track down an author and kidnap her in order to make a trade—I wondered if _I_ would do it. Maxine would be furious if we involved some innocent person in order to save her, but she was my sister and Sherlock's girlfriend.

However, Sherlock was staring at his phone, his eyes flicking left and right to indicate he was reading. His expression was tight with concentration and he began to type something out.

"Sherlock?" I said.

"He's known as Wolfgang in the underworld," Sherlock said abruptly. "To people in his line of work—to people who want to hire him."

"Yes," Miyako replied. "I told you, no-one knows his true identity."

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he typed one last thing before looking up at us. "I wouldn't say that," he said.

From his mobile, a text alert chimed—one that was different from his usual trill. It was the awkwardly orgasmic sigh of a woman. Miyako's brows shot up at the sound and my eyes widened.

"Does she know...?" I breathed.

Sherlock peered at his phone before smiling. "Let's go," he said, and headed down the stairs at a brisk trot.

* * *

 _Maxine_

The metal doors of the shipping crate opened. I lifted my head, my heart stuttering in my chest. Wolfgang came striding inside, smiling.

"It's showtime," he announced.

When I woke from my escape attempt, I noticed that Wolfgang had taken extra measures to make certain nothing like that happened again. He'd placed me in a suit of armor that was slightly too large for me. It was complete with chainmail underclothes and all. I was chained to a furniture dolly, despite the armor being too heavy to move in. Wolfgang came over to undo the chains, still smiling.

Once able and with Wolfgang's help, I got to my feet and eyed him warily. "What does that mean? What did Sherlock say?"

"He found who I came here for," Wolfgang replied. "Knew he would—just needed the right motivation."

He walked behind me and gripped the dolly's handles to lift me off the ground. Whistling, he wheeled me out of the crate. My mind was racing; who had Sherlock found to take my place? Or did he have another plan that didn't require any sort of hostage exchange?

Out in the warehouse, I saw there were more shipping crates scattered around us. There was a large clearing of them directly in front of the crate I'd been in, leaving nowhere to run and hide before Wolfgang would be able to shoot—not that I was going anywhere.

"I should mention..." Wolfgang murmured. "I don't think you're going anywhere, but if you make one move in an attempt to escape, I _promise_ you I'll shoot John the second I see him. He'll be coming with Sherlock, you and I both know that. I need Sherlock and I need Lyheart, but your brother? Heh..."

"Leave John out of this," I snarled through clenched teeth.

"That's entirely up to you." Wolfgang gave me a smirk.

I looked down at the chains wrapped about my torso and legs. Even if I didn't believe Wolfgang's threat, I wasn't getting out of this. I had to hope Sherlock had some sort of plan. I was useless in this—the damsel in distress. It infuriated me. I nearly had him with my bed sheet trick, but he still outsmarted me. If only I managed to kill him... I wanted to show up back at 221B Baker St with a smug smirk and see Sherlock's expression of relief and pride.

That wasn't happening, at least not in that fashion.

Carefully, Wolfgang propped me up in a way where I wouldn't topple over. I squirmed in an attempt to get more comfortable in the armor, but to no avail. Wolfgang sighed and began to pace around. He had his pistol in one hand and twirled it idly now and then.

"I have to admit, you're previous attempt was good," Wolfgang said. "I'd read your brother's blogs, but I always thought he exaggerated your skills. Though, he wasn't lying about the dagger."

I looked over at him sharply as he crouched down. From his boot, he pulled free my dagger and my eyes widened at the sight of it. The katakana on it read: AKAGE. Either he couldn't read Japanese, or he didn't realize that Lyheart and Akage were the same person— _me_. He twirled it in his hand and looked over the blade.

"This is a pretty thing," he said. "Sentimental too, I'd bet."

I pressed my lips into a tight line. Getting my dagger would change the stakes, whether he had a gun or not. There was something about that blade that gave me new confidence and strength. Though I wasn't getting to it how I was now.

"Tell you what, just because I like you, I'll make sure you get it back," Wolfgang said with a small smile toward me.

Before I could respond, a phone began ringing in his pocket. He replaced the dagger in his boot and took the mobile out to answer.

"I take it you're close?" he asked.

I didn't hear the response on the other end, but Wolfgang grinned.

"Good. Through the door I instructed. It's unlocked." He disconnected the call and pocketed his phone again. "You're calvary has arrives, my lady."

"Don't call me that," I muttered sourly.

Wolfgang merely smiled at me.

* * *

 _Sherlock_

The large metal doors swung wide to allow us access to the warehouse. Miyako stood to my right, hands bound behind her back and with a convincing look of terror on her face. We'd gagged her with a cloth and tape as well in an attempt to make it more convincing. Though the ropes were tied in such a way that she'd be able to slip free if needed.

John was on her other side, guiding her with his hand on her arm. He was grim and I could see simmering rage lingering behind his eyes. Wolfgang didn't realize the fury he'd wrought by taking Maxine. Here, walking in to save her, were the three people that cared the most about her in this world, of that I was certain.

And all of us were eager for blood.

As the doors swung close behind us, I spotted two figures ahead of us. They stood in an empty spot among several shipping crates. One was a man that was quite similar to the composite sketch—wide, strong face, low, intense eyebrows, a slightly upturned nose and full lips that were quirked into a smug smile. His hair was auburn and he couldn't have been more than 5'10.

There was a pistol in his hand, but he didn't raise it on our arrival. A show of confidence? Perhaps, but I only saw it as stupidity.

A few meters from him was Maxine. She was in a suit of armor, the one that was stolen. It was too large on her and she was strapped to a furniture dolly with chains. The very sight sent rage boiling inside me. It reminded me of when I found her beaten by the FBI men. This man was getting something far worse than a trip out a window.

Upon spotting Miyako, Maxine's eyes stretched wide and her jaw went slack. I fixated her with a hard stare, hoping she knew not to give anything away. Maxine finally met my eyes and she clamped her mouth shut, but her eyes were burning with questions.

"Ah, so the great Sherlock Holmes can be convinced to turn to crime, if the motivation is there," Wolfgang said.

"Maxine," John breathed. "Are you all right? Has he hurt you? Has he touched you?"

"No," Maxine managed to rasp. "No, no. I'm fine. Just..." Her eyes darted between the three of us in rising panic.

"I brought what you want, now let Max go," I snarled.

Miyako was doing an excellent job of looking around in manic confusion. She whimpered softly and strained, but John held her in place.

"How do I know for certain she's Dakota Lyheart?" Wolfgang asked with a slight grin.

 _He's enjoying this,_ I realized with fury.

"Dakota Lyheart," I said with a huff. "Lived in Japan until two years ago. Was forced to leave due to connections with the Yakuza. She fled to London to start a new life, but kept publishing her work."

I slowly lifted my jacket away from myself to show Wolfgang I was merely grabbing papers from an inside pocket. Once I had them, I slid them across the ground to him.

"You'll find that the publishers have been in contact with this address, you can see the records there," I said. "They were dealing with a Kaida Miyako. Her passport is in there. The names line up."

Wolfgang crouched and picked up the papers that Mycroft had falsified for me. With one hand, he deftly thumbed through the papers. I could tell this man was agile and lithe. He'd be a challenge in hand-to-hand combat and his skills with a gun was most likely terrifying.

"My dear Sherlock, doing his homework," Wolfgang sighed. "Very well." He turned to Maxine and set down the papers to undo the chains. Their clatter echoed around the warehouse as they fell to the floor. "Start walking to them, nice and slow... not that you could do anything else," he said once she was free and aimed his handgun at the back of her head. "Send Miss Miyako over. Any tricks and Maxine's blood paints the floors."

John pushed Miyako forward. She gave a grunt of protest and tried to back up, but I shoved her next.

"He'll just shoot you in the leg and drag you with him," I snapped at her. "Just go."

Miyako sobbed softly and began to slowly walk toward Wolfgang.

Giving her captor a wary glance, Maxine began to lumber forward. She locked her eyes on Miyako and her expression was drenched in conflict. She looked over her shoulder at Wolfgang just before she was going to pass Miyako. The man still had his gun trained on her. When she looked forward again, I hoped beyond hope that my eyes told her to trust me—to let Miyako go over to Wolfgang.

Maxine hesitated for only a couple of heartbeats before pushing on toward us. The second she was within my reach, I grabbed her arm and pulled her behind me.

"John, help her with that armor," I ordered softly while keeping my eyes on Wolfgang.

Miyako had reached him and he grabbed her arm firmly. He smiled toward us.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said. He lifted his leg and produced a familiar dagger from his boot. "I promised her I'd return it."

He set the weapon on the floor and kicked it across to us. I knelt and swiftly picked it up. It was Maxine's dagger, for certain. I read the Japanese on the blade with pursed lips. _AKAGE._ So this man didn't know who his true target was.

John and Maxine had managed to get the chest piece off. It was time for me to stall.

"I do have a question, before you head off," I said, barely able to keep the fury from my voice.

Wolfgang perked a brow at me. "Our business is done, Sherlock. I'm letting you take the girl and leave—isn't that enough?"

Ignoring his comment, I asked, "How many aliases do you use across all your bank accounts? Because I found about four and I just want to make sure I'm not missing any."

Wolfgang's arrogant expression faltered. "What?"

"Your bank accounts," I repeated. "Your birth name is Dexter Moser, right? But you've got one account under Alexander Reed, another under Frederick Adams, and a third under Quinn Lakes. So tell me, are those the only four accounts you have?"

I began to grin as John helped Maxine out of her greaves. I twirled Maxine's dagger in my hand and let out a long exhale.

"Because if that's the case, you might be in some trouble, financially," I said.

Wolfgang's face went from confused to angry. His intense brows lowered even further and he bared his teeth. "Just what are you insinuating, Sherlock?"

"I have a lot of friends in a lot of places," I told him. "One is someone who likes to help the police in North America. You'd know him as Jack. He's taken a _special_ interest in you, and the moment he had your birth name, he was able to work wonders on his beloved computer." I handed Maxine her dagger as I spoke and she gave me a grateful nod.

"Cyber Detective," Wolfgang snarled. "No... no, you're _bluffing._ There's no way he got into all my accounts."

"I did give you your real name, didn't I?" I tilted my head, noting that Maxine was almost free of all the armor—John was pulling the chainmail off over her head. "Why don't you check your balance?"

Wolfgang blinked rapidly and looked between me and Miyako.

"Don't move," he ordered the latter and pulled out his mobile.

As he was fixated on its screen, my eyes met Miyako's. Her expression had changed from the frightful prisoner to the calculating assassin Maxine always described. She stared at Wolfgang's back, and her arms began to wiggle slightly; she was getting out of her binds.

Wolfgang's shoulders tensed and he slowly lifted his gaze from his phone. His expression had gone from frustratingly confused to outright murderous. I smiled and put my hands in my pockets. The right one curled around a small pistol I'd borrowed from Lestrade—not entirely with his consent or knowledge.

"This better be some kind of joke," Wolfgang said, his voice low and promising death.

"Oh, while it's quite hilarious, it's no joke," I replied. "You see, originally, it was just going to be leverage. I'd demand Lyheart back after the trade and offer to put your money back where Jack found it. But something came along and made this little incident so much better."

Miyako's arms stopped moving around. Slowly, like a panther, she took a silent step back and eyed Wolfgang as if searching for a weak spot.

"Stop _dancing,_ Sherlock," Wolfgang snapped. His previous calm demeanor had evaporated completely. "I don't care for your theatrics. I want my money back, _now._ "

"See, that's the part that's better," I sighed. "I was infuriated with the idea of letting you go. Of letting you leave unscathed after what you've done to Max—after killing those three people. Now I get to leave all those accounts empty. Consider it your penance... well, part of it, anyway."

Wolfgang pocketed his mobile and lifted his pistol to aim at my head. I didn't even blink. I stared at him with as much contempt as I could muster. He was baring his teeth in his rage, a dog angry that his bone had been taken. Behind him, Miyako carefully untied her gag—a cloth with a rope keeping it in place—and let it fall soundlessly to the ground.

"This doesn't end well for you, Sherlock," Wolfgang breathed. "I was given orders to keep you alive, but this is a special circumstance. I promise you, though: you'll put every cent back before I'm done with you, and by then you'll be begging for death."

"Doubtful," I said, and Miyako pounced.

The ropes that had been around her fell to the ground. She grabbed Wolfgang's arm and shoved it upwards. The gun still fired, but the bullet sailed uselessly over our heads. Miyako twisted Wolfgang's arm around in an attempt to disarm him. I pulled out my small handgun while John freed his pistol from his waistband. Maxine came to my side, gripping her dagger with a white-knuckled hand.

"Wait," I told her, sensing the way she was readying to spring forward.

Maxine gave me a conflicted glance. I lifted my small pistol and began to walk forward carefully and slightly to the side. Miyako and Wolfgang were still tussling. Miyako had the finesse and skill, but Wolfgang was clearly stronger. He squirmed out of her grip, but before he could aim his gun, Miyako was already twisting around him to grab his arm again.

I didn't have a clear shot, and neither did John by the look on his face. The two were moving too much and often getting in front of the other. If we fired, we risked shooting Miyako.

"I have to help," Maxine insisted.

"No!" I ordered.

I knew that there was a good chance that Maxine would be able to help Miyako overwhelm Wolfgang, but I'd only just gotten her back. I was terrified by the thought of losing her for good.

Maxine hesitated, but I could tell she was about to ignore me.

That was when the second gunshot sounded.

Startled, we looked over toward Wolfgang and Miyako. The two were clutching one another, and it was impossible to see the gun or if either were injured. However, after a few seconds, Miyako gave a pained cough, and blood sprayed from her lips.

Maxine gave an audible gasp of horror as Wolfgang released Miyako. The Aikido instructor fell to the ground with blood pooling around her upper abdomen. The blood was dark. Not good.

"Miyako!" Maxine exclaimed and sprinted forward.

"Max, wait!" I tried, but she ignored me.

Wolfgang was lifting his pistol at the incoming Maxine. I slid to the side to get a clear shot of him and fired my little pistol. My shot missed, but it distracted him and he flinched. The next gunshot was from John's handgun and that bullet grazed Wolfgang's left side. By the time the man reoriented himself, Maxine was upon him.

With a furious yell, she thrust the dagger into his chest. Wolfgang gasped and dropped his pistol while staggering backward. Maxine cried out again as she tore her blade free just to plunge it into the man's gut. Wolfgang coughed up blood and shuddered. Maxine glared at him with a furious expression.

"Just so you know," she snarled. "You had what you needed all along. _I'm_ Dakota Lyheart. For all your boasting, you're still just another fool."

"Maxine, Maxine!" John was rushing to her side, hastily pocketing his pistol. His eyes were wide and filled with shock and horror.

Maxine ignored him. I hurried over and grabbed John's shoulder.

"Tend to Miyako," I told him. "Here, take this." I pulled off my dark blue scarf and passed it to him.

John was clearly conflicted for a moment, but he was the doctor. He grabbed my scarf and rushed over to Miyako's side. She was still alive, but only just. I turned my attention to Maxine. Wolfgang was sputtering up more blood and looked both absolutely livid and in a great deal of pain.

I knelt at Maxine's side and put my hands around hers that were still on the hilt of her dagger. She seemed to snap back to reality. Her face had been twisted with rage and her eyes were glassed over. They refocused and she looked up at me, her mouth slightly agape and her hands beginning to tremble.

"Come on," I murmured gently to her.

Together, we pulled the blade free from Wolfgang's stomach. He groaned in pain. I gently pulled Maxine away from him, knowing there was far too much blood around him for him to survive, even if we attempted to save him.

Once standing, Maxine dropped her dagger. With my hands still around hers, I released her and caught the hilt before it fell to the ground. Wolfgang's blood was stained around the pinky-side of my hands; it was splattered on Maxine's front and her face.

Maxine took a moment to move again. I reached toward her and gripped her elbow. My heart was thrumming wildly throughout my entire body. I found myself examining Maxine for any sign of harm—any sign that Wolfgang did something to her. She looked over at me briefly, blinking, and then she turned abruptly to stare at Miyako.

John had lifted Miyako's shirt and was pushing my scarf against the wound. I was going to have to get a new one; there was far too much blood to wash out. Maxine bolted to their sides and fell to her knees. She put her hands on the floor near Miyako's head to stare down into her face.

"No, no, no..." she whimpered. "No, Miyako. Ie! Koreha okori emasen!"

Her revert to Japanese was so fluid and quick. It was one of the languages I was near fluent in, and I swiftly translated it: _No, this can't be happening._

Miyako turned her head and looked into Maxine's eyes. She was already paling at a shocking rate—my scarf was nearly soaked through. I went over to John's side and gave him a questioning look.

"The... the bullet's still in there," John said. "It went in at an angle. Without tools, there's no way to... and at the rate she's bleeding..."

"No," Maxine said again. "No, don't... Miyako..." She went back to speaking Japanese, but I understood her. "You can't leave. You just... why did you do this? Why?"

"Because..." Miyako replied weakly, also speaking her native tongue. "This is my doing, Akage. Now... they have no reason to come for you. Tell them Moriarty is the reason I..."

Maxine was trembling. Miyako gave her a sad smile, her lips stained red.

"Max," she said softly, now speaking English. "You are... strong. You are... enough."

"D-don't," Maxine whimpered, tears flowing down her face. "Don't talk like this—you..."

"I must rest now," Miyako said, closing her eyes. "I've been... so tired... for so long."

"Miyako," Maxine breathed. "Miyako, don't!" She went back to Japanese. "You can't! You can't just come back and then leave like this! You woke me up! You _saved_ me, Miyako! I can't be the reason you die! I can't!"

Miyako was unresponsive. John slowly began to lean back, his face slightly tearstained and glancing warily at his sister. Maxine continued to hover over her mentor in anguish. She gave an unearthly sound—something deep and full of sorrow. She squeezed her eyes tight and clenched her jaw, hissing out sobs through her teeth.

I knelt at her side and wrapped an around around her shoulders. She was shaking madly and didn't react to my touch. I didn't know what to do or say. I'd never seen Maxine show so much emotion. John and I exchanged a worried look; clearly he was in the same boat as me.

Behind us, Wolfgang's gurgled breathing ceased. It seemed he, too, was gone. I was going to have to tell Lestrade it was self defense. I didn't look forward to the paperwork, but I was certain that Lestrade would make it work. Maxine had never killed anyone before, and I knew in that brief moment before she thrust her blade down, I was trying to save her from that. Despite all her flaws and how lethal she was with a dagger, Maxine was something... pure. Killing someone like that was going to take its toll on her.

"Max," I whispered. "Come on. Let's get you outside. We need to call Lestrade."

"I... I can't leave her," Maxine stammered.

"Maddie, there's nothing you can do for her now," John said gently. "Some air would do you a lot of good."

Maxine looked as though she was going to argue more, but then sheer exhaustion washed over her face. She sniffled, nodded, and allowed me to help her to her feet. I guided her toward the doors, glancing back to see John sighing and staring at Miyako's lifeless face with regret.

The moment this case revealed that it was targeting Maxine, I felt like I was running at two hundred kilometers per hour but still unable to catch up to anything. Now I felt as though I reached my destination, but it was not at all what I expected. I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know what to think or do or say. I just held Maxine tightly in my arms, and hoped that I could somehow help the pain and anguish leave her eyes.

* * *

 _Maxine_

When the numbness came, it was a godsend. I never felt so much emotion at once in my entire life—let alone sheer anguish and guilt. I spent all my life unable to access the feelings everyone else seemed to have; I thought that I was broken in some sense, but then Miyako and Sherlock had shown me that I was just different. I was whole again, for a time.

Not anymore.

Sherlock and John explained how Miyako arrived at the flat hoping to help. She knew that Wolfgang was here, and Dakota Lyheart was the target. When she found I was already taken, she insisted on helping. Sherlock eventually deduced a truth that made all the pieces of Miyako fit together—she was the daughter of a Yakuza clan leader. That was why she was threatened, not killed. That was why she wanted to take down the syndicate, because she knew how horrific it was better than anyone.

She'd never see that through. Kaida Miyako—or, Sakura Hikura—was gone because of me. If I hadn't fallen for Wolfgang's disguise at the Scotland Yard, if I hadn't been too weak and stupid to be unable to escape... she'd still be here.

Sherlock told Lestrade that Wolfgang's death was due to self defense, and I think the Detective Inspector knew not to push for details based on our expressions alone. It was made clear that I was to be left alone for at least a few weeks, if not indefinitely, about this case. Sherlock insisted he would tell Lestrade all the details he needed.

It had been three weeks now. I only left my room to use the bathroom and barely ate one meal a day. John often brought food to my door. At first, he'd knocked and asked to come in, but my only response had been to throw something heavy at the door—a pencil holder, a stapler, a four-inch-thick book. My door was scarred and covered in dings from it. John adjusted to merely tapping lightly when he brought some food and remained silent.

Sherlock had asked if I wanted company the first few days. I had merely pointed at the door, showing that I didn't want anyone near me. He would come up each day and try again, but I refused to let him inside after the first week. He opted to sit outside my door and talk to me about how Mycroft was ensuring that the Yakuza couldn't get into London—at least not without a lot of effort getting by his security. He told me how his hacker friend, Jack, had gone in and made it next to impossible to be able to link my identity to Dakota Lyheart, at least on paper.

All we had to worry about now was Moriarty potentially helping the Yakuza directly, but Sherlock said he doubted Moriarty would do that.

"It's too direct, too easy," he had said. "Moriarty has proven he enjoys games far too much to do something so obvious. Besides... I don't think the Yakuza's interest in you will persist after..."

He'd trailed off, then left for that day. I remembered hearing his footsteps heading down the stairs as tears burned my eyes.

I was currently staring down at a blank sheet of paper. My room was littered with wadded up balls of paper of failed drawings and muses. I couldn't focus. Working on MANA was too difficult—all it did was remind me of my pain and guilt. I tried to focus on my new manga, The Adventures of Silas Hughes, but that too only thrust my mind into darkness.

Behind me, I heard my door open.

I stiffened up instantly and glanced over my shoulder. Sherlock stood in the doorway, eyeing me hesitantly with his hand still on the doorknob. I guessed he was waiting to see if I was going to retaliate somehow. Neither he or John had just come into my room without knocking. We stared at each other for a moment before I turned away and looked back at my piece of paper.

The door closed and I heard Sherlock walk over to the bed and sit down, his feet kicking aside some of the paper on the floor. I stared at the blank sheet in front of me, my heart hammering in my ears. Sherlock was silent for a moment and I could feel his gaze boring into my back.

"I can't say anything that will make it go away," Sherlock finally murmured. "And you've no idea how much that hurts me."

I kept my back to him and slowly began to sketch the outline of a humanoid figure. I heard Sherlock let out a slow exhale through his nose that sounded shaking. I slowly began to draw limbs while I waited; for what, I wasn't certain. For him to go on? For me to gain the courage to turn around and face him?

"I... Max, I don't know what to do," Sherlock admitted, his voice cracking.

My entire body tensed at the sound. My hand froze and I stared down at my drawing without seeing it for a long moment. It was enough to experience the agony inside myself, but to hear pain and desperation in Sherlock... I could feel the splintered remains of my heart threatening to shatter completely.

"I dunno if you just need time, or..." Sherlock trailed off and gave a shaky breath. "John and I are both here. You have to know that, Max. You're not alone."

I pressed my lips into a tight line and shut my eyes. I exhaled sharply and finally managed to make myself swivel in my chair to face the detective.

Sherlock was seated at the end of my bed, leaning forward on his knees with his hands clasped together. His curly hair was on end, as if he'd been running his hands through it. His green eyes were locked on mine and his mouth went slightly agape when he spotted the tears beginning to trail down my cheeks.

"I-I know," I stammered. "I just... I..."

Sherlock got to his feet slowly, eyeing my reaction. I hadn't let anyone get close to me since we'd returned home the night Miyako died. When I didn't say or make a gesture to deny him, Sherlock moved toward me. In his haste, he stumbled just before he reached me, but he landed on his knees and scooted the rest of the way. He placed his hands on the armrests of my chair and looked up into my face.

"I can't begin to understand what you're going through," he said softly. "And I'm so, so sorry it happened. But... please, just let me in."

I let out a small, stifled sob and shut my eyes tightly. "I don't know how," I rasped.

Sherlock's warm hands wrapped around mine. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me with determination.

"That's all right," he said. "I don't either. But we can figure it out together."

Sherlock stood up and tugged on my hands. I rose with him and he wrapped me in his arms and buried his face in my hair. His warmth went through my whole body.

"You're strong," he assured softly. "Stronger than you know."

I gave another shuddering breath before my walls fell completely. Sobs shook my body and I wailed as I clung to Sherlock. Tears soaked the front of his shirt and the neck of mine. I wasn't sure how long I cried for. I guessed John must have come up at some point, because there was a sudden hand on my shoulder that couldn't have been Sherlock's since his arms were wrapped around my torso.

Sherlock murmured something to John, and I heard my brother give some kind of confirmation before his hand left. In the time when he was gone and back with a tray of royal milk tea, I calmed down. Sherlock gently guided me to my bed and I sat down. John took Sherlock's place at my side briefly as the detective went downstairs to find tissues.

As John poured me a cup, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and coughed.

"Why do people cry?" I muttered weakly. "It's disgusting."

John laughed softly and handed me the cup. "I suppose it's... releasing. The chemicals in tears that come from just watering eyes that are caused by allergies or colds are difference than the tears that come from... well, crying. It's something our body is meant to do."

I sniffled, but my nostrils were thoroughly clogged and the sound was horrendous. I shuddered and sipped the tea.

"Thank you," I told my brother.

"You remember when my dog died when we were kids?" John said. "You were only seven, but you were the only one who stayed with me when I was... well, in a similar state as your own. This is just what family does. I love you, you know."

John didn't use that word often. He seemed to know it made me uncomfortable. Love was something deep, something that one had to commit to. It promised devotion and vulnerability. I wasn't certain I'd ever said it back to him. I sighed shakily and glanced over at him.

"I love you, too," I murmured.

John blinked in pleasant surprise. He smiled and wrapped an arm around my shoulders to give me a squeeze. "No one is expecting you to just bounce back, Maddie. This is... it's the first time you've had to experience loss. Just let us help you, all right?"

I nodded and sipped more of my tea.

Sherlock came back with a box of tissues and John patted me on the shoulder one more time before letting Sherlock take his spot. They exchanged a look as they did so, one of mutual respect. It was like John was finally okay with Sherlock and me dating, like he was ready to let his little sister be looked after by someone besides just him.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," John said as he exited my room.

Sherlock sat beside me, carefully setting the tray of tea on my bedside table. He poured himself a cup as I used up about ten tissues to clear out my nose.

"I think I've grown quite fond of this," he said after he took a drink from his cup. "I think it's the froth."

I smiled over at him weakly. "It was the first drink I had when I got to Japan. I loved it ever since."

There was that word again. It was so easy to profess love to things. Objects couldn't demand anything or expose one's vulnerability. They couldn't betray or hurt or destroy that feeling like people could. I'd told my brother I loved him, and I knew that had been true since I first understood what love was. However, there was a different type of love that had been on my mind.

The love I had for John was platonic, of course. However, ever since Sherlock and I kissed that Christmas night, I realized there was another form of love I was capable of. It had been growing and growing, and right then, I knew it reached an apex, one that forced me to acknowledge it was there.

"I'm so tired," I rasped, shaking my head.

Sherlock set his cup on the tray and turned toward me. "Some sleep might do you good," he said.

He pulled back the sheets on my bed and I crawled beneath them. Sherlock pulled them up to my shoulder and gently kissed my forehead. His movements were delicate and full of care. Just as he began to pull away, I reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Stay with me?" I asked in a small voice.

Sherlock blinked, seemingly surprised, but he recovered quickly and nodded. "Of course," he said, sitting back down on the bed.

I released him and he opted to put a hand on my upper arm. He gently rubbed it as I closed my eyes. The crying had done something to me; I was lighter, more at peace. It was like the part of me that was clinging so tightly to Miyako had loosened its grip, at least a little bit.

And so, with that relief and Sherlock's presence, I found sleep.


End file.
